Son of Magic
by Purple-Pebbles
Summary: After decades of war, the world is on the brink of destruction, with no hope for survival. The only way to go on is to travel back in time and change everything that's gone wrong, starting with Tom Riddle. That's how Harry Potter found himself in 1941, a time he had hoped never to find himself in again. Why 1941? Death has a pretty messed up sense of humour, that's why. HP/TR
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

 **23rd June, 2367  
London, England**

It took them well over a century to accomplish, but the muggles had finally done it. They'd finally found a way to defeat their long-standing enemy. Unfortunately, it wasn't only the muggles' enemies that were about to be destroyed.

The muggles, due to their profound lack of understanding of how the world works, had unwittingly ensured the end of the world at large.

Yes, the apocalypse was nigh, and there was absolutely nothing anyone could do to stop it.

Well, perhaps there was one person that could prevent the inevitable from happening, but his intervention was yet to be determined.

In case you were wondering, the muggles were at war with the magicals, which consisted of all magic wielders—creatures and humans alike—along with all their sympathizers.

One hundred and thirty-eight years ago, muggles, in a series of very unfortunate events, found out about the magical world. It was a discovery which led to worldwide panic and chaos, and it was also a discovery which plunged the world into the most vicious war of all time.

With the Statute of Secrecy shattered, muggles around the whole globe became terrified and untrusting, caging themselves inside their homes for fear of their shadows. But they didn't stay hidden forever. No, it didn't take much time at all for their paranoia to fester and grow to the point where they decided that they needed to unite and strike.

No amount of diplomacy could make the muggle masses understand that they had been living in coexistence with the magicals for centuries, even if the muggles themselves had been largely unaware of it.

The muggles had been afraid of the unknown and what they couldn't understand, and never stopped being afraid. That fear of the unknown fueled their hatred and their agenda to destroy anything magical in the world—anything they weren't able to control.

That is how the war between the two worlds began, and it hadn't stopped since.

Once the muggles had officially declared war against the magical world, everything started changing at a very rapid pace. Nothing was as it had been, and in a few, short months it became apparent to both sides that circumstances wouldn't ever be returning to the status quo.

Many things that had made the world bearable to live in, like laughter and joy, had been the first to leave those old enough to understand just how severely the world was changing. But it didn't take long for the children to learn that there was nothing in the world left to laugh about—that fun and games were a thing of the past. Then, one day, all the children were gone, replaced by young soldiers trained to fight for their survival.

Disputes between the Dark and Light faction had also become a distant thing of the past as wizards and creatures alike united on a single front to ensure their continued existence.

Hope was the next to vanish off the face of the earth. After decades of never-ending battles, bloodshed, and loss, there seemed to be no escaping the nightmare that had become everyone's life.

There was no peace, not even amongst allies, because by then the hunger took over, that unquenchable and blood searing hunger to survive. The hunger took over, and there was nothing left but a need to devour.

These days no one knew what it felt like to be at peace. Peace was so far removed from the scopes of reality that it had long since become a forgotten concept, one that was not even whispered to the scared babes at night.

No, regrettably, peace hadn't held reign over the world for far too many years. Instead, the world was ruled by conflict, hostility, and fear, creating an age of war the likes of which had never been seen before.

The world as it once was ceased to exist and was replaced by a hellish domain that served nothing but misery.

With each advancement the muggles made, they managed to break the world some more, forever incapable of learning to share the world as they were meant to—never understanding that magic was the sole reason for their existence.

For over a century, absolute destruction and incomprehensible mayhem plagued the world, with no cure for the deeply rooted disease that brought the world to its shattered knees.

One hundred and thirty-eight years of war, and it was all coming to a painful and deadly end because the muggles found a way to destroy her—the mother of all that walks the earth. They managed to create an abomination that, unbeknown to them, was going to destroy _everything_ in its path, and Britain was the first the feel its wrath.

Two hours ago, London was fatally struck, leaving it to bleed out and drive the whole country into decay. No witch, wizard, muggle, or creature that had stayed was left alive. Ashes and a pungent smell of death and toxins were all that remained.

A thick cloud of smoke and dirt covered the ruins of the city, and it was still growing larger, fed by every last building that was collapsing and burning.

Among the chaos and rubble, there was a lone surviving tower atop which a raven-haired man silently appeared out of thin air. He stood completely still while his wary and saddened eyes roamed over the debris, his dark emerald cloak billowing wildly behind him in the wind. His broad-looking shoulders immediately sagged as he took in the destruction that spread out in each direction.

To the raven-haired man's left, another figure appeared. This figure wore a long, black robe with a hood that concealed his whole face. As he appeared, this dark-hooded man stumbled and almost collapsed to his knees, but the raven-haired man was quick to grab him by his shoulder to steady him.

"Too ma-many souls," rasped the black-robed man before bending over in unbearable pain.

The raven-haired man winced and waited for his longtime companion to push through the pain and regain his bearings.

"This is the end, isn't it?" the raven-haired man asked him once his friend's breathing evened out, his voice raw with distress and disbelief.

The dark-hooded man groaned as he straightened his back and did his best to ignore the pain resonating within his very being.

"They have chosen," he confirmed, still somewhat breathless, not bothering to feign the same surprise and incredulity his friend felt.

"I didn't think…" the raven-haired man trailed off, at a loss for words. "I honestly thought-" he started again, but choked and shook his head disappointedly. "I thought it would get better," he finally whispered. "I never imagined that they could be so…"

"Unreasonable? Spiteful? Ignorant? Blind?" supplied his companion rather testily as he curiously peeked at the fiery pits below them.

"Yes," he agreed with a slight frown. "And so unbelievably _cruel_ ," he added as he felt another agonized magical pulse vibrating up his limbs. These pulses were his mothers' tortured, dying cries. "How could they do this to her?" he questioned distraughtly, desperate to understand how it could have all gone so wrong. "Mother Magic is dying—poisoned by these ungrateful non-magicals. How- How dare they?!" he roared into the raging storm.

Fed by his anger, the fires burning around them blazed even higher and started dancing ferociously to the beat of his unsettled heart. Then, the raven-haired man's green eyes took on a dangerous shine to them, glowing unnaturally bright amidst the darkness around him, and suddenly, his all-consuming fury made the earth beneath them shake violently.

"Calm yourself," snapped the dark-hooded man commandingly while warily eyeing the destruction his friend was causing. "It would do no good for you to exhaust or injure yourself right now."

The raven-haired man huffed but took in a deep breath and composed himself. With his Occlumency shield fortified the flames receded, but his eyes didn't lose any of their unnatural brightness.

"I could've prevented this, couldn't I?" he asked him in a barely-there whisper, his previous rage extinguished by the wave of guilt that suddenly came crashing over him.

The dark-hooded man looked away from him and out towards the sea of fire that reached as far as the eye could see. "It wasn't your responsibility to prevent this from happening," he answered evasively.

"That's not what I asked," the raven-haired man shot back sharply, momentarily unable to see past the haze of guilt that clouded his mind.

"Maybe you could have stopped this, or perhaps you couldn't," he shrugged. "You, beyond anyone else traipsing the mortal realm, should know this," he told him calmly, unbothered by his friend's temper.

"I swore to myself, long ago, that I would never meddle with the affairs of mortals again," the green-eyed man mumbled, trying to block out the sudden onslaught of nightmarish memories.

His friend sighed. "I remember," he hissed as he bit back another scream that wanted to tear out of him.

The muggles' blast reached beyond the British Isles and had started seeping into the rest of Europe, taking with it every last soul in its path.

"You and I both know what happened the last time I tried to change things," the green-eyed man pointed out somewhat defensively.

His dark-hooded companion inwardly winced at the reminder.

The last time his friend had tried to make some significant changes to the time-line, it had turned into an absolute fiasco that had left the wizarding world in a worse state than it had been in before. And as a slightly lesser consequence, his friend's heart had been reduced to shambles.

That particular experience was the reason why his friend had decided to never time-jump again, preferring not to meddle with time or the human populous in general.

"But I can't just stand here and watch the world burn," he heard his raven-haired friend whisper to himself, causing the dark-hooded man to refrain from rolling his eyes.

The world they were both bound to was about to be destroyed. So yes, they definitely couldn't just stand here and watch the world burn.

"We're going to have to go back," the raven-haired man concluded, voice flat and devoid of any emotion.

At that moment, a fresh wave of pain washed over the dark-hooded man. "What do you have in mind?" he asked him through gritted teeth.

"We're going to save the bloody world, what else?'' came his glib reply.

 _Right. Of course_. _What else?_

" _When_ exactly would you like to go?" he asked him while doing his best to ignore the tortured screams of the recently deceased.

The raven-haired man deliberated for a moment and shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "Couldn't you pinpoint a time in history when we could have prevented this mess?" he asked him while gesturing towards the burning and crumbling buildings around them.

"I can only guess,'' his companion replied, but a plan was already forming in his mind.

There were about a few hundred possible time-periods which they could go back to, but there is one _specific_ decade which his friend would preferably not visit. Thinking about it, he'd probably want to skip that whole century altogether, which made it the absolute _perfect_ time for them to jump back to.

You see, one hundred and sixty-seven years ago his green-eyed friend played a prank on him, one he didn't find particularly amusing, and he'd been biding his time for a very long while to execute the ideal revenge. The apocalypse seemed like the perfect opportunity to finally retaliate.

While it might seem a bit harsh of him, in the end, after his friend has sufficiently suffered, he might finally get to have the happiness that he deserved.

During the heartwarming process of that happily ever after, this whole mess they were currently living in could be prevented, and the world and Mother Magic saved.

Truly a win-win scenario.

Hopefully, his friend had learned something over their centuries together, and everything would work out as it should. If it didn't, well if he didn't, then at least he would have gotten his revenge for that prank. Besides, they could always go back again, maybe a bit further this time, far enough to prevent the existence of humans altogether. Magical and non-magical alike.

"Then give it your best guess. Anywhere is going to be better than here," the green-eyed man told him, completely unaware of the mischief his companion was planning.

"I'll give it my best guess," he promised, pushing back his glee.

"I'll see you at the veil then," was all the green-eyed man said before he vanished into thin air.

As soon as he was gone, a wicked smirk appeared on the dark-hooded man's handsome face.

They were heading into a particularly exciting couple of decades. He almost felt something akin to excitement stirring in his dead heart.

* * *

 **June 23rd, 1941  
Ministry of Magic  
London, England**

Harry Potter stumbled out of the other side of the veil, just barely able to avoid his face from ungracefully greeting the floor.

"There was no need for you to push me," he grumbled as he straightened out his black, silk shirt and emerald cloak. "I wouldn't have taken so long if you had just told me _when_ exactly it was that you were sending me to."

As he said this, Harry was taking in his new but very familiar surroundings, and for some reason, a deep sense of foreboding started settling over him.

He subtly sniffed the air and frowned.

"Did you just sniff the air?" his intimidating companion asked him in a flat tone, appearing behind him with his dark hood still in place, as always.

Harry ignored him as he stepped off the dais and away from the veil, further into the chamber. He sniffed the air again and his frown twisted into a repulsed grimace.

The air smelled like ashes, dirt, pollution, and death.

It stank like the war they had just escaped from—only less toxic.

"You took me away from one war zone only to drop me into another? Why would you do that?" he asked him, his tone bordering on a whine.

"You never specified that it was a time of peace you wanted to go back to," Death shrugged nonchalantly, successfully hiding his devious glee.

"I would assume that since we were fleeing Doomsday, it was bloody well implied that we wanted some damn peace! Tell me we didn't land in the middle of Riddle's uprising or something as ridiculous as that,'' he pleaded, suspicion and panic already rising in his chest.

"We didn't," Death said, but before Harry could release a relieved breath, he added, "Not exactly."

Harry groaned and ran his fingers through his wind-swept hair. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"We're not technically during his uprising in the way that you mean," came another cryptic reply.

Instead of asking Death to clarify and risk getting another one of those cryptic replies, he mulled over his words a bit. After all, no one reaches his ancient age without learning how to crack a few riddles.

 _'Not in the way that you mean'_ , he said, and however he turned that around the implication was there, but he couldn't possibly...

Death was his friend, his comrade, his best mate forever—literally.

He wouldn't do this to him, not after the last time they came back around to _that_ decade.

Harry scoffed. Who exactly was he trying to kid?

As soon as he finished that last thought he blinked and was gone from sight.

The next second, Harry silently appeared in an alley a few blocks away from the Ministry of Magic.

Harry quickly took in his surroundings and immediately felt like crying.

So maybe Death was more treacherous than he thought.

He saw a newspaper flying his way and quickly reached out to snatch it. As he flipped it around, he noticed that it was a fairly clean copy, so it had to be recent.

He searched the corner for a date and cursed.

 _23rd June 1941._

Bugger.

"This is retaliation for that prank I pulled on you some hundred and fifty years ago, isn't it?"

The next second Death was standing next to him, practically buzzing with excitement.

"It was one hundred and sixty-seven years ago, to be precise," smirked a very smug Death. At least it sounded like he was smirking. Wretched hood. Bastard.

"We've been here before, Death. I've already tried this route and failed, or do you not recall?" Harry asked him in a dangerously calm tone.

Harry's body was rigid as he tried to contain the rage and fear that started to bubble up inside him, but his emerald eyes gave him away, unable to hide the multitude of different emotions that were wreaking havoc inside him.

"You're older now, Harry. You will not repeat the same mistakes you made before," Death tried to reassure his friend.

"Older does not necessarily mean wiser, Death!" he exclaimed with a dramatic wave of his hand. "Especially not when it comes to _him_ ," he spat, imploring his friend to understand.

This couldn't possibly end in anything but a disaster.

"He's younger this time," Death pointed out, but Harry just shook his head.

"He's fourteen! He's already been through every horror imaginable, and he's already committed atrocities that no child his age should be capable of. He's already _him_ ," Harry insisted.

"He's yet to spill any blood," Death reminded him, but Harry just glared at him.

"You forget that I value each life, however insignificant they may be to you. Creatures have already bled and died under his hands, minds have been tortured, and souls seduced," he said, trying to make his friend see what a horrible mistake this was.

"You know that he's not yet the devil you paint him out to be," Death persisted, growing increasingly irate with his friend. Why did he choose someone so stubborn to be his companion?

"Then why didn't you send me back to when he was a babe? Why not let me try and raise him to be better? Instead, you chose to torture me," he snapped accusingly.

The air around them chilled as Death tried and failed to contain his irritation.

"And what of the balance?" he growled. "He might not have committed those crimes just yet, but his soul is tainted by the heinous act of its defiling. Tearing your soul in such a grotesque manner—" he paused and released a disgusted chortle. "No, such magic isn't simply reversed and ignored, as you very well know, Harry. He felt no remorse for his actions, and so he must suffer the consequences. Magic _demands_ balance."

Fearing an oncoming snowstorm, Harry decided not to argue with him.

"So, I'm to go to Hogwarts then." It wasn't really a question. Harry could try and avoid Hogwarts and Riddle all he liked, Death would find a way to push them together.

"You think that by saving Riddle, I'll save the world." Again, not really a question, and he reluctantly agreed.

If Riddle had been slightly less unhinged, he might have led the world into greatness. If Riddle hadn't been such a psychopathic, treacherous, genocidal, cheating, megalomaniac... Erm- right, anyway, but he was- is all those things and much more.

"It might be a step in the right direction," Death agreed, sounding more chipper than he had in decades.

"Right," Harry sighed and slumped against the wall behind him, unbothered by the dirt and grime that covered every inch of the alley he was hidden in.

"If I have to kill him again, it's over. I want them all gone. Every single undeserving human on this earth. We'll wipe it clean and start over."

"Sounds like we have a plan B, my friend," Death readily agreed, already knowing what their next course of action would have to be if they failed.

"I can't allow them to hurt her again. She won't survive it," Harry said as he knelt and placed his palm on the ground.

"So you feel it?" Death asked him, sounding uncharacteristically concerned and sombre.

Harry gave him a curt nod and sighed. "She's still in pain. Mother will need to recuperate her energy, and it's going to take some time. Sending us here in the state she was in took a lot out of her."

"The echo of that devastation will never fully leave her," Death agreed. "But fear not, she will thrive again," he consoled him but refrained from patting his shoulder reassuringly.

"I'm undeserving of being her chosen son. Look what I allowed to happen to her," he mumbled, voice brimming with self-loathing.

"It's not our place to meddle with the choices of mortals, Harry. Every soul must be tested. But we're here now, and that's all that matters."

"And am I not here to meddle with the choices of mortals?" he asked darkly with misdirected venom.

"Yes, you are," he said naturally, ignoring his friend's acidity. "Because we've clearly seen what leaving them to their own devices will lead to. They need all the help they can get if they are to be saved."

Harry chuckled humorlessly. "And I'm supposed to start with Riddle?" he asked him dubiously. "He's obviously the easiest person to turn to our side," he grumbled.

"Indeed," Death said, completely ignoring Harry's sarcasm. "We're going to have to start small, Harry, and young Riddle is just the perfect place to start."

Harry decided not to say anything at all and just closed his eyes.

This was all a very bad dream. He would soon wake up in his comfortable bed, which was located deep in the African continent.

"Don't fret, young Harry," Death encouraged, then he pinched him, thus ruining Harry's last shred of hope that this was all a nightmare.

He groaned and rubbed the spot Death had just pinched. "Not dreaming then," he sighed and opened his eyes.

"We have two months to get your affairs in order."

"Priorities, Death. Priorities," he deadpanned. "I'll go ahead and assume that you won't be so kind as to pick another point in history where I can start stopping the world from being burned to ashes? You know, for instance, any point before Riddle's existence?"

Death didn't think that he needed to dignify that with an answer. There was a prank. There were female demons involved. And that was all he would add to that.

"Well, if that's settled," Harry snapped. "Welcome to the 1940s, Potter."

"You're going to have to change your name."

"Will you _please_ not start acting like this is my first trip through time! I'll have you know that I was-"

"-only thirteen when I took my first trip into the past. I know. I was witness to the fiasco that was you helping your godfather escape."

"It was not a fiasco," Harry cried, vehemently defending his early adventures in the wizarding world.

"It could have gone more smoothly," teased Death.

"I was thirteen."

"Closer to fourteen, really."

"You mentioned something about getting my affairs in order?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 **October 3rd, 1941**

 **Hogwarts,**

 **Somewhere behind heavy wards in Scotland**

Tom Marvolo Riddle understood the concept of distractions, even if he himself had never before suffered from such nugatory disturbances.

His purpose and aspirations always stood unrelenting in the very forefront of his mind, and there had been nothing in existence that could deter him from his endeavours, and for such he had been admired and praised by everyone that knew him. In the magical world at least.

Nothing could ever distract him, and yet here he found himself again, with bright emerald green breaking through all of his mental shields.

The colour invaded his clear mind and muddled it with resentment and a newly acquired ability he thought himself incapable of.

Of course, Tom understood the burning sensation of desire, knew intimately the torrid pulses that seared the body in desperate need. He wasn't above desire, and he desired numerous things, like power, control, immortality, and respect. He craved to achieve greatness, be the most talented, most recognized. He sought his name to be known among all men, women, children, and creature, but never before had he desired another witch or wizard.

He'd desired to control them for his own means, undoubtedly, but he had never lusted for anyone based on their attraction and appeal alone.

Such a thing was incomprehensible to him.

Yes, he understood what society as a general whole categorized as beautiful and attractive. He, himself could admit that he found certain features more attractive than others, but it had never provoked more than natural arousal and a need to satisfy himself.

He had experienced sexual pleasure and the obvious calming release that ensued. Just as any other boy his age, he was undergoing the process of puberty, however trivial he found it.

But sexual pleasure was not what truly satisfied him and got his blood boiling. What did was to gain whatever he coveted, be it connections, special artefacts, knowledge, or simply the control and complete submission from a follower.

He understood how a 'normal' person would react to a person they find attractive, he had, after all, more than enough experience with how people reacted to him. They looked at him with such obscene hunger, hardly able to curb their need to catch his attention at every turn.

Throughout the years he had observed and used people's desires against them. He'd never completely understood their lust for him, the need to belong to someone, but he accepted it and found out that it was yet another weapon to use in his favour, another way to control.

He had long since accepted that he wasn't normal, that he was different—better, unchained by such fruitless emotions such as lust and infatuation. He didn't want to be like everyone else - average. Average people do not achieve the greatness he desired.

Even so, for the past month, his blood had been boiling, and his stomach clenching and twisting in uncomfortable knots at even the slightest thought of emerald green and raven black.

Tom Marvolo Riddle had been degraded to an accelerated heart rate, vein pulsating in his neck with rushing blood, like some… some… pubescent girl.

He could almost taste the adrenalin as it urged him to do something, anything to quell this intolerable and salacious hunger.

He now understood perfectly and preferred he didn't.

He had been right, it was a weakness, but he wasn't going to let it control him.

That was why he hadn't stopped Abraxas Malfoy and Caius Avery when they had hinted that they were going out to find their newest classmate and teach him a lesson on the Slytherin hierarchy, which he seemed so disinclined to accept and follow.

The raven-haired new student seemed to be quiet and very reserved. He tried his best to stay out of everyone's way, preferring solitude to the company of others and quite unwilling to socialize with his peers for even a moment. In fact, the only people Tom had seen him speak with at length were the seventh-year Slytherin Prefect, Alphard Black, and his cousin Orion.

Tom had to admit that he admired the cunning and aesthetic way the boy had managed to rebuff the attention he had gotten in the first few days of his arrival, when it was first revealed that he was heir to house Peverell. He had done it so perfectly that until that morning he had been forgotten by most, just not by Tom.

He didn't personally share any classes with the boy, with him being a fourth-year and Peverell being a seventh-year student, but he was told that he didn't speak in class unless called upon and seemed to be averagely powerful. Nothing that would draw anyone's attention and very easily forgotten.

So why hadn't Tom forgotten about him?

His beauty and Lordship status that had initially garnered their peers' attention held no real value to him, so why was he bothered by the fact that no one managed to get more information on the mysterious new seventh-year student?

Hadrian James Peverell, Lord of his house as proven by the signet ring that he wore, was previously homeschooled by his traveller parents. Because he'd been recently orphaned due to the war raging outside of Hogwarts, he'd decided to attend Hogwarts as per his parents' last request - for him to properly finish his education and further his chances at an apprenticeship within the castle. That was all anyone knew about the boy.

Hadrian Peverell spent most of his time in the library and was rarely ever seen at any of the meals, and it was an even rarer sight to catch him in the common room.

Because of the gap in their ages, he wasn't privy to Peverell's sleeping patterns, but from what he had been told, his curtains were always drawn and when they weren't, he wouldn't get back before they'd all slept and would be out before anyone woke up.

Because of this, one could understand why, when said new Slytherin classmate was seen walking and laughing in the corridors between classes with seventh-year Gryffindor Golden Boy Fleamont Potter, the consensus was shock, indignation, disapproval, rage, and, lastly, revolt.

The house of Slytherin was not going to stand for such an insult.

Tom had said nothing when he had seen the effortless camaraderie they seemed to share. He hadn't allowed his feet to stop moving and he hadn't allowed his hand to tremble. He hadn't allowed himself to show the rage he felt at the nauseating scene he had had the misfortune to witness.

He hadn't uttered a word about it, unlike the rest of the Hogwarts population and had tried, in vain, to push the situation out of his mind. He would not succumb to this weakness.

For the rest of the day, he hid behind his perfected mask of cool indifference and ignored a situation he would usually have a hand in rectifying. Why? Because he couldn't allow himself to speak, lest his jealousy manages to take control of his actions and sways him to act upon this urge to dispose of both men. He could imagine how beautiful it would be to watch the life drain out of Potter's eyes before he collapsed limply in his own pool of blood. Yes, the satisfaction would taste all too sweet, topped only by Peverell's own demise.

Tom shook himself out of these fantasies and shot a quick glance at the clock hanging atop the fireplace, noticing that it had already been over an hour since Malfoy and Avery had taken their leave from the common room. Another ten minutes and they would miss curfew.

No one had left to their rooms yet. Everyone was still about, waiting for Malfoy and Avery's return so they would find out the damage that had been inflicted and wanting to collect on their bets. Maybe even vindictively waiting to catch a glimpse of the victim.

How long would he be unconscious for? Two days or maybe a month? Had they severed a limb?

No one doubted that retribution would be dealt, not even himself.

No one cared for Peverell's wellbeing, so why was he so anxious? What was this uncomfortable aching pang in his heart when he thought of Peverell being hurt? Had he not just fantasized about taking the boy's life himself?

This was all too foreign to him. He didn't understand. It was unclear, and things had always been clear to him. He didn't like this new development, and he wouldn't tolerate it. He would get himself under control. Things would be clear again. Hadrian Peverell was no one, and this beating he was being served would extinguish any appeal Tom had towards him. He was sure of it, because he hated weak and pathetic people and that is what Abraxas and Caius would render him to.

Excited chattering, giggling, and mocking laughter was quickly stolen by the ear-shattering bang of the entrance door slamming open.

Each and every head in the common room turned towards the entrance and watched the imposing figure of Hadrian Peverell emerge from the shadows of the alcoves with two beaten and bloodied bodies levitating behind him.

The silence that followed was out-measured only by the suffocating presence of Hadrian Peverell's magic. It was wild and uncontained, lashing out and filling the room.

Power. So much raw power. How had he managed to conceal this amount of magic?

As soon as he'd felt it, it was gone.

No one uttered a single word, and it was as if everyone had simultaneously stopped breathing, including Tom. No one moved when Peverell dropped the rope-bound bodies to the ground, this incomprehensible situation seemingly having rendered the whole of Slytherin house immobile.

Tom marvelled at the complete nonchalance in which he disposed of the two bodies, and once again his stomach knotted and the skin at the back of his neck felt fevered. Had he not been distracted by the sudden surge of arousal, he would have noticed that there was no wand in sight.

Peverell's face was impassive as he let his eyes trail over the whole room, completely unscathed from the duel that must have taken place just a few minutes before.

''I'm not quite sure if you all understand the meaning of this display,'' he started with a deep, velvety voice that carried dangerously over the ringing silence, gesturing towards the unmoving bodies. Tom was unable to suppress his shiver at the darkness that caressed him.

''But as I would like to not have to resort to these measures again, I shall indulge you with an explanation,'' he continued, inspecting his nails in an act of easy indifference. It was as amusing as it was insulting, but Tom managed to bite back his smirk.

''These two fools,'' Peverell sighed exasperatedly, ''bound at my feet, had the audacity to believe they were allowed to dictate who I am to spend my time with. Furthermore, they tried to hurt an acquaintance of mine. Not to worry,'' he smiled wickedly, making some of the younger students whimper, "they quickly learned the consequences of such uncouth actions. Rest assured that the next time anyone presumes they are able to control me or tries to hurt anyone I decide to associate with, they will not be dealt with as generously, and such people should be wary of my retaliation.''

Once he was sure his threat had set in, Peverell's eyes snapped towards Tom. His expression was still stoic and impassive, but his eyes had narrowed slightly, flashing in a warning that, no, he was not exempt from this threat.

Rage struck his every nerve, clashing wildly with lust for this boy who dared challenge him.

Peverell suddenly took three steps in his direction and came to a stop just two feet away from his sitting position in his armchair. He tilted his head to the side, hair falling into his eyes as he assessed him.

Tom cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at him but dared to do no more, curious to hear what the boy had to say to him.

''Now, we wouldn't want our house's reputation to suffer because of a couple of imbeciles, so I shan't speak with Slughorn, just this once. Please do try and keep a tighter hold on that leash of yours,'' was all he said before he turned around and left, seemingly unbothered by the fact that it was now well past curfew.

Once the portrait hole shut behind Peverell, Tom turned to the two bound fools still lying helplessly on the floor.

''I want to speak with the sixth-year boys in their dorm room immediately.'' He didn't have to raise his voice; it carried through the room in dangerous waves filled with the promise of punishment, should anyone refuse his orders. He stood and made his way to the stairs, leaving his other associates to deal with the bound boys.

His mind was reeling. How was this possible? How had he managed to best Malfoy and Avery?

Peverell hadn't shown any spectacular abilities in class, his work mediocre at best. He shouldn't have been able to hold a candle against Avery, yet the dark, enraged power that had been pulsating and radiating around Peverell had been real. The promise to hurt had been real, as was the deep seething malice that had taken his breath away.

The door swung open and Nott walked in, his shoulder loaned to Malfoy, whilst Lestrange and Rosier had to carry Avery's trembling body inside.

Avery was shaking uncontrollably, and his face was devoid of any colour besides the fresh blood that was running down his cheeks from the open wound in his head. His hair was matted to his tear and sweat slickened face, and his eyes were shut in pain. He was a complete mess and unable to use any of his limbs, whimpering and groaning with each step he took.

From the state Avery was in, Tom gathered that he hadn't been the only one to throw around a few dark curses.

Lestrange and Rosier looked at him for permission to set him down, which he gave.

Once they placed Avery onto the bed, they all turned to him, waiting for him to speak.

Tom's eyes snapped to Abraxas, whose face was lowered in shame and fear, but his body was locked, presumably because of the shock he was going through.

He was in much better shape than Avery, but still had a red streak of blood tainting his dishevelled platinum blond hair, and his robes were torn in several places.

''Explain to me how Hadrian Peverell managed to get the best of you,'' he requested calmly, but the threat in his voice was obvious.

''We f-found him with P-Potter, b-but P-Peverell, it was Peverell. Fleamont didn't have to l-lift a finger,'' Abraxas stuttered, clenching his jaw whilst shaking his head. His hands were clenched at his side, trying unsuccessfully to keep them from trembling. His face was hidden away by his long blond hair, an indication that he had lost control over his emotions and was unable to reign in his obvious terror. ''I-I'm not s-sure...'' he trailed of shuddering, unable to finish his thought.

What had Hadrian Peverell done to them exactly?

''What do you mean, you're unsure? Were you not conscious when he attacked you and Avery?'' Tom hissed at him.

''I was,'' he whispered in a way that spoke loudly of how he wished he hadn't been. ''I don't understand. It's impossible,'' he mumbled, locking his stormy blue eyes with Tom's grey ones for the first time since his arrival.

What Tom saw had him almost stumbling back. Abraxas was terrified, completely panic-stricken and frantic, flighty. He wanted to escape. Not Tom, but the memories of Hadrian Peverell.

''They were disarmed,'' he continued, voice pitched with hysterical incredulity.

This caught their attention; everyone's heads snapping to Abra -xas, and Avery released a whimper from his bed.

''Do you mean to insinuate that Hadrian Peverell bested you both wandlessly?'' Impossible. Wandless casting was nearly impossible to master, almost unheard of. Wizards and witches needed their wands for a reason - that reason being the need to focus and channel their magic. One didn't just go around performing complex wandless magic.

Of course, Tom was able to cast a select few spells wandlessly, but not any dark spells like the kind that seem to have been inflicted on his housemates.

''See for yourself,'' Abraxas offered, his eyes never leaving him. ''Because I have no words,'' he confessed, completely disturbed by what he had been witness to that night.

Tom took the invitation and without a second thought invaded his mind. Abraxas's mental walls were down and the memory he wanted was offered freely for his viewing.

 _Abraxas and Avery rounded the corner of an abandoned hallway close to the library when they had finally found the subject of their ire leaning against the wall, smiling gently at the Gryffindor boy who seemed to be rambling and gesturing wildly with his hands, presumably talking about Quidditch._

 _''Peverell, so glad we've run into you,'' Avery called out to them, instantly halting their conversation._

 _Potter spun around, glare instantly falling onto his face, whilst Peverell just tilted his head to the side. The smile was gone from his face but there was no outwardly sign of hostility, just slight irritation at being interrupted._

 _''Malfoy, Avery,'' he acknowledged but didn't move from his position, whilst Potter already had his wand in his hand, ready for the attack._

 _''We would like to have a few words with you, Peverell,'' Abraxas requested, and the command didn't go unheard._

 _''That so,'' Peverell commented bemusedly. ''Why don't you go on and head to your tower, Fleamont, I'll speak to you tomorrow,'' he told Potter without moving his eyes away from the two Slytherins in front of him._

 _''I think I'll stay a while,'' Potter told him resolutely, probably knowing what they had planned for their housemate._

 _''You better listen to him, Potter,'' Avery spat, taking another step forward. ''You don't want to find yourself in an uncomfortable situation,'' he warned but, obviously, the Gryffindor wasn't about to move and leave his friend behind to be attacked. He was a Gryffindor and therefore had no sense of self-preservation._

 _''How about you watch yourself, Avery. I may not be Head Boy, but I am still a prefect,'' Potter threatened, causing both Malfoy and Avery to chuckle._

 _''Gentlemen,'' Peverell intervened. ''Must there be such hostility in the air?'' he questioned, wrinkling his nose as if disgusted with the display._

 _''You seem to need a reminder of your place, Peverell,'' Abraxas said, noticing the platitude just as Tom had._

 _''And you wish to be the one to remind me, Malfoy?'' Peverell asked him with a raised brow._

 _''Your insolence will be punished,'' Avery promised, smiling cruelly at Peverell, but the boy wasn't shaken._

 _''My insolence? What have I done to offend your delicate sensibilities?'' Peverell asked with a tone of genuine curiosity, which Tom knew to be completely ingenuine. Potter chuckled lightly, drawing Avery's attention once again back to him._

 _''Slytherins do not associate with Gryffindors, especially not when they don't have the common courtesy to associate with their own house,'' Abraxas told Peverell airily. ''What have we done to offend you so that you would shun us so publicly?'' he asked, and Tom could feel the genuine curiosity behind his question. It had been running through everyone's mind for the whole day, so he couldn't be blamed for asking._

 _''I see,'' Peverell mumbled, licking his lower lip. ''So, you wish to decide with whom I keep company based on the sole reason that I was sorted into Slytherin house. I also seem to have overstepped some form of boundaries that the Slytherin hierarchy has set up, and because I have overstepped said boundaries, by associating with a blood traitor, you now wish to teach me a lesson in the name of Slytherin house for my ghastly betrayal. You wish to assert dominance over me and show me that I am at the very bottom of this hierarchy, meaning that my freedom is yours to do with as you please; this based on the account of my unknown blood-status, and presumably powerless state, as opposed to the obvious superiority of outstanding pure-bloods such as yourselves. Have I left anything out?''_

 _His question was left unanswered as hexes and curses started flying._

 _Peverell didn't attack, just shielded and dodged the spells effortlessly, and Potter was holding his own until Abraxas managed to finally disarm him._

 _Avery took the opportunity and sent a bone-breaker at Potter, which Peverell managed to shield him from at the last second, but the distraction was enough to allow Avery to disarm Peverell, wand flying towards him and caught with acute reflexes._

 _The duel should have been over; Malfoy and Avery had won. They now had the upper hand, but it was only Potter that looked marginally nervous at having no wand to defend himself with._

 _''I guess pretty words are all you're worth, Peverell,'' Avery mocked as he twirled the newly won wand in his hand._

 _Peverell nodded, but neither noticed the small smirk that twitched at the edges of his lips. ''That's right Avery. Now give Potter back his wand and let him leave. It is, after all, I that has slighted you,'' Peverell tried to bargain._

 _''I don't think so, Peverell. Potter needs to be taught a lesson of his own,'' Abraxas mentioned lightly. ''Don't you think so, Avery? It seems like too good an opportunity to miss.''_

 _Had they been paying attention to Peverell they would have noticed the fire that flashed in his eyes. They would have noticed his subdued back straightening and his jaw setting in determination._

 _He had allowed his housemates their fun, but threatening his friend seemed to have crossed some line for Peverell._

 _''I wouldn't do that if I were you, Avery,'' Peverell warned, all pretences dropping. His voice gained a dangerous edge to it and his eyes flashed brightly in warning._

 _''Have you forgotten that you're wandless, Peverell?'' Avery reminded him, face contorted in fury when he noticed that the boy wasn't cowering in fear and submission._

 _''Last warning,'' Peverell threatened, garnering an incredulous look even from Potter._

 _Without warning, Avery aimed a Crucio towards Potter, but once again Peverell saved him, and Tom had to wonder if the boy had been sorted into the correct house._

 _Peverell stepped in front of the torture curse for Potter and Tom could feel Abraxas's incredulity mixing with his own. Why on earth would anyone step in front of such a curse for anyone, let alone a boy whom you've known for less than a month?_

 _Incredulity made way for shock and sheer amazement at the fact that the man under the torture curse had yet to release a single scream. His body was convulsing with the agony that he was under, but his eyes held strong as steel as he fell to one knee under the pressure of absolute pain._

 _Abraxas turned to a now wide-eyed Avery, whose grip on his wand had slackened in shock. Avery gasped, and his jaw dropped. The reaction urged Abraxas to turn his head back to Peverell, and he too lost his composure, eyes wide open and jaw firmly unhinged._

 _Horror, that was the only emotion cursing through Abraxas as he watched Peverell stand up whilst still under the Cruciatus._

 _Tom watched fascinated as the raven-haired man flicked his wrist and disarmed them both at once, all four wands flying to the other end of the corridor and out of reach._

 _The next second Peverell had Abraxas thrown into the wall with a sickening crunch and as soon as his fallen body touched the ground, it was bound in tight black ropes. Horror increased to panicked terror at being bound and helpless against the man whose magic was suffocating him._

 _Tom felt the memory of the darkness that had wrapped around Abraxas like a blanket, and it took all his self-control not to moan aloud._

 _''Leave, Potter,'' Peverell commanded, his attention focused solely on Avery, who was now kneeling at his feet, unable to move. When a few seconds of silence went by Peverell forcefully ordered again. ''Now, Potter! Not a word about this to anyone,'' he warned without sparing him a glance._

 _''R-right. Okay,'' Potter stuttered, looking at him with awe-filled eyes. ''Not a word,'' he promised, and with one last glance at the man that had just saved him, he scurried off._

 _Once Potter was out of sight Peverell lifted his hand, and with it Avery rose into the air, his eyes widening in fear when he started choking and gasping for breath, struggling against the invisible force that held him in place._

 _''Don't worry,'' Peverell said soothingly. ''You're allowed to scream. No one will hear you,'' he promised sadistically._

 _Then the screaming started, agonized screams telling of pain and a wish to die. Tom watched as Avery convulsed, his body snapping in all odd directions as Peverell held him up in mid-air._

 _Tears started streaming down his face, and his lungs were starting to give out, choked sobs mixing into the screams._

 _Tom could feel Abraxas's need to look away from the scene, but he found himself unable to move his head or even close his eyes. So he was helplessly stuck watching his friend getting tortured with just a few gestures and clenching of Peverell's fingers._

 _Peverell held whatever spell he had cast for over a minute before Avery found himself slammed down to the ground, breaking a few of his ribs surely, before he bound him with the same ropes Abraxas was bound in, struck immobile and soundless._

 _''I warned you,'' he told them. ''I shall go ahead and assume that you now know better than to try another attack on my person, or on any other one of my acquaintances,'' he told them drolly, completely unaffected by what he had just done to his housemates._

Having seen enough, Tom retreated from Abraxas's mind. Abraxas was the first to look away, staggering against Nott who had gone to his side when he started shaking mid-memory.

Tom had no words for what he had just seen because it was impossible. He could now understand Abraxas's stuttering and inability to explain what happened. He could now understand his terror and panic. They had gone to teach the boy a lesson and, instead, they had found a master that dealt them enlightenment they wouldn't soon forget.

The show of uninhibited power and complete control had been both glorious and alarming.

His eyes had flashed so viciously it had Tom almost gasping for air as he ached with need.

His defiance under torture had been alluring, sending a rush of heated shivers down his spine before turning his blood to ice.

His sadistic retribution had been delicious and terrifying.

Who is this boy that wielded so much power that rivalled and surpassed his own? How had no one noticed this before? How had he not noticed such a threat?

Why would he hide such talent and prowess, seemingly uninterested in politics? What cards exactly was he holding up his sleeves?

He stood corrected. Hadrian's sorting had by no means been a mistake. No, Hadrian Peverell seemed to be the embodiment of Slytherin qualities.

Harry Peverell was perfection, and Tom wanted him. He wanted his loyalty, devotion, and protection as Potter seemed to have it. Wanted to own his mind and learn each one of his dark secrets. Wanted him begging on his knees, vying for his attention, unable to live without him.

He couldn't oppose such power, and he didn't want to.

Peverell may have been powerful, but he was ruled by his emotions just like everyone else. He had seen it when Avery started threatening Potter; gone had been the cool indifference, replaced by immeasurable fury.

Hadrian Peverell could be controlled, and Tom would take immense pleasure in breaking him and making him his.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 **October 4th, 1941  
Hogwarts  
**  
Over the following night, something changed within the Slytherin house, and every soul residing in the castle noticed. Not one pupil wearing green and silver murmured a single word of what happened the night before, and Potter seemed to have kept his mouth shut as promised, because everyone else was kept guessing as to why on earth all of the Slytherins were acting so subdued.

Not that Tom blamed them; he was still quite confused at the turn of events himself.

The Slytherin fourth-years were currently sharing Defense Against the Dark Arts with the Gryffindors, and Tom was cursing the fact that he was three years Peverell's junior and unable to share classes with him.

They didn't share any classes, but for the first time in days Peverell showed up to breakfast, sitting and chatting amiably with Orion and Alphard Black, who didn't seem averse to the attention they were receiving from their new housemate.

That morning Tom allowed himself to stare inconspicuously at the boy, taking in every detail he was offered. For the first time since the second day of term, he allowed himself to really look at the raven-haired boy that was able to send his heart racing.

Peverell was by no means a short man, about six feet if he had to hazard a guess. His stature looked lean, muscular and athletic, goading Tom to have one too many dreams wondering about what Peverell had concealed beneath those expensive school robes he wore.

His long raven hair, as always, was pulled back elegantly away from his face with a velvety, dark emerald ribbon, but his fringe was left to carelessly cover his eyes.

One could speculate all they wanted about his blood-status, but his chiselled features spoke loudly and obviously of pureblood ancestry. Peverell had the sharp Black cheekbones which accentuated his hollowed cheeks handsomely, and a Potter nose which he wore delicately. Striking pureblood features were complimented perfectly by his strong jaw and the bright emerald jewels that shaped his eyes.

Tom had never seen such eyes before, so unbelievably green and vibrant that they called to you from the other side of the room; old eyes that told of unimaginable tales and insufferable grief, ones that didn't belong upon the angelic face of the seventeen-year-old.

What could he possibly have been through? What suffering had led him here?

Hadrian Peverell had gone from an insignificant new Slytherin student to the most mysterious enigma he had ever had the pleasure of encountering.

How could they have all been so blind as not see what was hiding in front of their very own eyes?

Why was Peverell hiding in the shadows when he had, it seemed, immeasurable power at his disposal to wield with the very tips of his fingers?

Tom, immersed as he was in his musing, didn't notice that class had let out and that students were now rushing out, glad that classes were done for the day.

Lestrange tapped him on his shoulder to get his attention and Tom snapped his head in his direction.

''Coming?'' he asked wearily.

Tom just gave a curt nod and started gathering his things from the table.

''Are we to meet with Abraxas?'' Tom asked no one in particular.

''I don't think so. If I were to take a guess, I'd say he's off looking for Peverell,'' Lestrange drawled lazily with a smirk in place.

Dolohov snorted at this, drawing Tom's attention. He chuckled and Tom arch a brow at him in question. ''Abraxas has been mooning over Peverell since his arrival,'' he explained rolling his eyes.

''He has?'' Tom asked indifferently, but his gut was suddenly twisting and burning.

Dolohov and Lestrange turned to look at him with identical disbelieving expressions.

''Peverell is all Abraxas has been talking about since the start of term,'' Lestrange blinked, not quite understanding how Tom had managed to miss that piece of information. It probably had to do with the fact that he had been trying to block out anything and everything that was remotely related to Hadrian Peverell.

''I hadn't noticed,'' Tom murmured distractedly, trying to put out the fire that ignited inside him at the news.

''He's interested, but I didn't think he'd actually try and pursue him, especially not after last night,'' commented Lestrange.

''I'd rather think that he would try _because_ of last night,'' Dolohov chuckled darkly.

''He was terrified, or have you forgotten the state he was in last night, or the fact that Avery is still lying in bed shaking?'' Lestrange rebuffed, not seeing what Dolohov could mean.

''Think about it for a second, Gustus. Objectively speaking, Peverell is quite handsome as we've repeatedly been reminded over the past month. Add the fact that he seems more than decently powerful to the package, with the added bonus of being a Peverell, and you have Abraxas's wet dream come to life,'' Dolohov explain as if it were obvious. ''Yes, now that Abraxas knows that Peverell isn't some mediocre wizard, he'd definitely want to try.''

''So, you think Abraxas will try to start up a relationship with Peverell?'' Tom asked them calmly, tone as uninterested as he could manage to make it sound with the sudden wave of possessiveness that immersed him in indignant rage.

''I'd say he's begging on his knees right about now,'' Dolohov smirked, wagging his eyebrows suggestively, unintentionally fueling Tom's rage.

Tom clenched his jaw and took a deep breath through his nose, trying to keep his poised mask in place.

Lestrange shrugged. "It seems that if anyone has a chance of bagging Peverell, it's one of the Blacks. They seemed rather cosy this morning."

"Orion is already in a marriage contract with Walburga," Cygnus reminded them indignantly, finally pulling his nose out of his book to join their conversation.

Dolohov smirked lecherously at his year mate and swung an arm over his shoulder. "Doesn't mean that he can't enjoy him before or even after."

"Orion would never betray my sister and our family name in such a way," Cygnus defended his cousin vehemently.

Not in the mood to deal with their bantering, Tom abruptly stopped walking. ''I need to head to the library. I'll meet you in the common room later,'' and without another word, he turned around and left them to their gossiping.

Peverell would not be his weakness - he couldn't allow it - but at the same time the thought of Abraxas' hands running over the skin he desperately wanted to touch made him burn and turned his vision green with envy.

The thought of Orion or Alphard fucking Black getting to him first was even worse.

While Cygnus quite readily obeyed his every word and complied with his rule over Slytherin house, the other Blacks didn't feel inclined to do the same, not even the wench Lucretia who never seemed to have forgotten about his blood-status. They might not defy him outright, moderately respectful of his prowess, but resistance burned brightly in their eyes. "Blacks do not bow to anyone," he had once heard Alphard whisper to him warningly, out of ear-shot from their other housemates.

He had wanted to shred him to pieces where he stood for his audacity, but unfortunately, his name protected him, but only for so long.

No, Alphard Black and his cousins would not be touching Peverell, he would make sure of it.

As he walked into the library, his eyes were immediately drawn to a raven-haired head, sitting next to an equally dark-haired Orion.

Before he could make up his mind, his feet were already carrying him to the table slightly to their right, curious to find out what they were discussing.

Quickly he got out his assignments and relevant notes, pretending not to be eavesdropping on the pair next to him.

"... forget to send my father an owl this week. He's been eagerly and somewhat impatiently waiting for your reply."

Peverell was acquainted with Arcturus Black?

"I apologise for leaving him waiting, but I needed to conduct some research before I was able to get back to him with an adequate reply. Didn't want to disappoint him," Peverell said sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"Not possible," Black deadpanned, probably rolling his eyes. "Since he met you at the Ministry this summer you're all he's been talking about. Even mother was a little jealous of the attention he was showing you, though her jealousy quelled when he mentioned a contract between you and Lucretia."

"It took me a week to think about a nice way to tell him that it was likely not going to happen," Peverell said, sounding pained at the memory of it.

"He was unusually quiet that evening, giving Lucretia these heartbroken looks. I honestly thought he was going to cry," Black laughed loudly, earning him a glare from the elderly librarian.

"Tell me honestly though," suddenly Black's tone had lost all its amusement. "You don't strike me as the kind of man that wants to get into politics, Harry. Why do it? Don't misunderstand!" he hastened to exclaim, eyes wide at his silent implication and Peverell's raised brow.

"I believe that you are more than capable of accomplishing what you set your mind to," he was quick to reassure, probably having last night's events playing in front of his eyes.

Tom did his best to overlook the fact that Orion fucking Black was allowed to refer to Peverell in such a familiar way, and managed because of a new fact that has just been revealed to him.

Peverell was interested in politics. Surely impossible, not with his antisocial nature.

Peverell stayed silent for a few seconds, looking closely at his friend with a sad smile on his lips.

"We live in the same world, Orion. A world ruled by discrimination and hatred. Surely you see that we need to change?" he asked him rhetorically with hardening eyes. "I see where the world is headed, and I fear the arrival of our complete annihilation," he said with terrifying conviction, and then he hesitated for a moment, staring through Orion and into a terrible future only he seemed able to see.

"So I'll do it," he continued with more confidence than before. "I'll do it because no one else will do it simply for the sake of our community. I'll do it because I'm probably the only person that wishes to do it for nothing else but to achieve peace and prosperity. I'll do it because to waste my resources would be to be selfish and undeserving of my title. I'll do it because if I don't, who will?"

How nauseatingly egotistical and noble of him.

So Hadrian Peverell wanted to change the wizarding world? He would need to get in line or fight him for the privilege.

"I don't know if that made you sound conceited or Gryfindorishly noble."

"I know you mean that in the nicest ways possible, Orion dear," Peverell joked.

"Are you sure you don't want to marry my sister? If you did father would probably name you as heir, and you'll have all the influence that comes with the Black name."

"I don't need to marry into the family because I already have your father's support and that's all the Black influence I need."

Orion groaned, barely restraining himself from dropping his head onto the table. "Do you ever," he mumbled grumpily under his breath. "Orion my boy," he started, in what Tom Riddle assumed was a bad impression of his father. "You stick with Harry, Orion, I tell you. You stick with him, and it will be the best decision you will ever make. Could learn a lot of things from him, going places he is. You stick with him, and we'll see the Black name restored to its former glory!"

Orion had always been one for theatrics. Tom could only thank whatever deity resided at the very top that he wasn't in the same year as him, because sharing a dorm would have been a horror.

To his surprise, Hadrian Peverell didn't seem to find the younger boy annoying, not if that beautiful laugh ringing in his ear was anything to go by.

How could a man such as him be amused by Orion Black? He was as dull as a first year's Lumos, barely tolerated by his own house. Orion, if not for the lordship he was to inherit, would be a nobody, yet Peverell enjoyed his company.

"We will, you know," Peverell told him, his tone once again turning grave.

"We will do what?" Orion asked him, taken aback by his friend's sudden mood shift.

"Restore your house to its former glory, what else?" he said, smiling wildly at the younger boy.

Orion tilted his head to the side, giving him a curious and confused look. Tom was confused himself. Why was Peverell so interested in the Blacks?

"I just don't understand you, Peverell," Orion told him shyly, his cheeks tinting slightly with the tiniest hint of a blush.

"Don't break your head over it. Most of the time I don't understand myself," he smirked, sending his friend a wink.

Before he could continue listening in into their conversation he heard Malfoy call his name from behind him, it took all his control not to let slip how startled he was. How had he not noticed him approaching?

"How was your day?" the blond-haired boy asked him, giving him a small smile before taking the available seat next to him, looking none the worse for wear, considering last night's…duel, if one could call it that.

As Malfoy settled himself next to him, the conversation he had with his year mates after class immediately slid into his mind. Now that Tom was paying attention to Abraxas he could easily tell that he was visibly restraining himself from looking over to where Peverell was sitting with Black.

So Lestrange and Dolohov had been right. How unfortunate.

Malfoy was a valuable ally to have. Tom couldn't very well handle him as he really wished to, preferably over a cliff. No, he would have to tread carefully but make it abundantly clear that Peverell was off-limits.

All he had to do was figure out a way to do that without revealing his unusual… desires towards the seventh-year. He would never allow anyone to know that he had such a weakness.

"Uneventful," he finally replied, going back to his Charms essay.

From the corner of his eyes, he glanced at the duo that had been sitting next to them and to his dismay noticed that they were packing to leave.

As they retreated he waited to see if Peverell would spare him a glace, even a quick flicker, but none came as he walked out, completely ignoring him as though he didn't even exist. No one ignored him. Soon enough Peverell would be no less ensnared by him than the rest of Hogwarts.

"I thought you would like to know that Avery finally managed to get up this afternoon. Nott went to check on him," Abraxas explained when he was able to tear his own eyes away from the retreating duo.

Tom raised a delicate eyebrow, surprised. With the state he was in last night he figured that he would need another couple of days to recover.

"Is that so," he murmured gently. "Is he fit enough to discuss last night's events?" he asked him, hardly caring if Avery was indeed fit, or rather, sane enough to do so.

Abraxas shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "He wasn't exactly in a sociable mood, but I am sure that he would make an exception for you," he quickly reassured when Tom narrowed his eyes at him.

"We leave now," he all but ordered, gathering his things.

Abraxas blinked and looked at the empty parchment and Runes book he had just gotten out of his bag, and back at Tom, who was now impatiently waiting for him.

"Of course," he nodded and swiftly got his things before Tom vocalised his irritation. Nothing good ever happened when he did.

His Runes essay would have to wait until after dinner.

* * *

"Do you really think that ignoring him is the best course of action?"

Harry was sitting on the roof of the astronomy tower, enjoying a clear night sky and the delightful company of his immortal friend.

"I'm not discussing this with you again," he sighed, not bothering to look away from what captivated his eyes.

"Yes, you repeatedly mention a plan. A plan which you've decided not to share with me. But I am starting to believe that Tom Riddle has no part in this plan. I think you're going to try and avoid him for long as you can," Death said, not bothering to hide his disapproval. This wasn't how things were meant to go.

Harry turned and gave his friend a menacing grin, making his friend's left eye twitch behind his dark hood.

"Tom Riddle is very much part of the plan," he reassured him with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "By the time I am done with him this time around, he won't dream of so much as looking at another witch or wizard. If he does? I'll exterminate him," he said frankly, his frightening smirk growing even larger, and at that moment he looked very much the insane wizard that he was.

For some reason, Death thought that his friend was hoping for the latter result.

"Here I was thinking that Alphard Black caught your attention," he mocked dryly. Harry's cheeks gained a hint of a blush as he looked away from his friend, deciding that it was better not to comment, which only led to Death cackling in dark amusement.

The last time they were there he hadn't had much interaction with the Black family, and Alphard had already graduated. This time Alphard was around to lavish him with mischievous smirks and blood boiling innuendos that ended up leaving him very distracted.

He may have been immortal and, in retrospect, very old, but he was a man. An insane, ancient man, but a man nonetheless, one with a youthful libido to boot.

But as much as he would like to think that he could start something with Alphard, he knew that those were delusional thoughts. He would never be able to do that, not with Tom being in the same time period.

Not when he looked as handsome as he ever had.

Not when he felt those possessive eyes on him every time they were in the same room.

Not when old memories of both of them together burned his mind every time he caught sight of him.

Not when he is still so undeniably in love with him.

Harry chuckled humorlessly, running a hand through his hair. Yes, he was indeed an insane fool.

"On another note, our other plans seem to be coming along nicely. Arcturus, in particular, is being admirably cooperative."

Harry chuckled and shrugged. "He does seem to like me more this time around," he said, grinning cheekily in that self-satisfied manner of his.

"You know that he's always had an unhealthy appreciation for you, don't try and play at being humble. It doesn't suit you," he scolded. "I just hadn't thought he would be willing to so openly listen to your suggestions."

"I've repeatedly warned you not to underestimate my charm. How many more centuries until you learn?" he asked Death, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

"At times like these you make it very hard for me to remember why we chose you," he sighed before silently vanishing.

"How rude," Harry muttered when he was left blinking at thin air.

Harry turned his eyes back to stars and sighed, clasping his hands together around his bent knees.

Everything was going as planned and coming along easier than expected, maybe a bit too easily, which left him very wary of the whole situation because nothing was ever easy for him. Yet here there he was, once again trying to win Tom Riddle's heart.

During his original time he would have never thought that he would find himself trying to connect with Tom, he hadn't ever wanted to see him again, and he didn't, not for a very long time. He and Death spent the next few decades travelling through different time periods before nostalgia had hit him. It made him decide to try and stop Voldemort from existing to save the people he still carried with him in his heart.

He had come close, so very close, but in the end, it was a failure because he fell in love with the man Tom Marvolo Riddle and he, in turn, was in love with Harry, but it hadn't been enough - _he_ hadn't been enough. So, Harry fled and events played out as they had done before because he had been unable to stop the man he had come to love.

 _Harry was on the roof of the astronomy tower, a place where he came to think or maybe to not think at all. He felt numb as he sat there looking at the stars, searching and memorising the ones he could no longer find._

 _He heard someone climbing up to join him, but he didn't turn around. Only one person knew to find him here._

 _"One of these days you're going to slip off this tower and die," he said as he settled next to him. Harry ignored him and continued searching the sky._

 _They sat in silence for the longest time before Tom sighed and ran an agitated hand through his hair. "I don't know what you want me to say, Harry," he hissed, grinding his teeth together._

 _An expressionless face and dead green eyes turned to look at him. "I don't think there is anything left to be said between us, Riddle," he said before turning his attention away from him and back to the stars._

 _Tom didn't say anything for a few moments, just watching the person sitting next to him and not recognising him._

 _"So you know," he said, sounding completely unapologetic but Harry didn't react to the insensitivity of his tone. "If that's settled," he sighed, annoyed. "I'll see you around. Best of luck with exams next week," he nodded before getting up and leaving._

 _As he started climbing back down Harry called out to him. Tom closed his eyes for a second before he turned to him, heart pounding within his chest._

 _"I know why you did it, Tom," he chuckled humorlessly and cleared his throat. "I want you to know that I know why you did it. You were afraid of the shift you felt inside you. So scared that your priorities were suddenly changing, isn't that right, Tom? You went to bed each night thinking of me and ways to keep me close rather than world domination," he chuckled again, darker this time and he shook his head. "Congratulations, you've managed to make the only person in the world that could ever love you, hate you. Embrace Voldemort, Tom, because he's all you'll ever have."_

Harry quickly tore himself away from his memories and groaned, dropping his forehead to his knees, willing his unshed tears away.

He had given him everything, every last piece of his soul and it hadn't been enough. Why should this time be any different? Could he survive another heartbreak like that? It wasn't really a matter of surviving, no he didn't have the luxury of the afterlife or rebirth. His mind was another matter altogether because there was no doubt left inside him that another such rejection would push him over the brink of insanity he'd been balancing over for so very long.

He feared the person he would become and dreaded the consequences should his plan fail.

He would rather skip this whole process, but if humanity got another chance, than so did Tom Marvolo Riddle.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 **November 12th, 1941  
Slytherin Dungeons, Hogwarts** _  
_

There were several reasons why Harry had initially argued so vehemently against going back to Hogwarts, besides wanting to avoid Tom that is. For starters, he hadn't particularly fancied the thought of keeping up the charade of being a _normal_ seventeen-year-old boy and having to go through the seventh-year curriculum for the third time. Then there was the fact that he was once again going to be surrounded by severely personality-lacking, prejudiced _children_. From experience, Harry knew that mortals around that age weren't exactly stimulating company.

There were a million other reasons why he'd been so set against going back to Hogwarts, reasons that saw him avoiding Hogwarts grounds for 389 years. Yet there he was, back to face all the ghosts and memories he'd run away from.

It is true that Hogwarts used to be a place of comfort and a symbol of hope. It is also true that he'd made some memories there that he was rather fond of, but unfortunately they were all tainted by the steady pain of loss. Such was the curse of being an Immortal—outliving everyone that had ever touched your heart.

Over the past few centuries, Harry thought that he'd managed to sever any ties and responsibilities he felt he had towards the mortals roaming the earth, even if he'd never quite mastered the absolute indifference Death felt towards everyone that wasn't Harry. In any case, he'd done a fine job of keeping out of everyone's business and pretending that he didn't care two wits about anything, but that's all he'd done, pretend and deceive himself.

While Harry had known that being back at Hogwarts would be painful and make him feel uncomfortable, he hadn't known that it was going to be like this—haunted at every corner by a multitude of memories from different timelines, all of them evoking several complex emotions he didn't much care to dwell on. No, he didn't care to dwell on them at all, but it was becoming increasingly hard for him to simply ignore the mess of emotions building inside him.

The nights spent within the castle walls were by far the worst. When everyone's gone to sleep, leaving the castle deadly quiet and without any distractions for him to cling to, his subconscious tended to stir in directions he wasn't at all comfortable with. Even in his sleep, he found no respite, not when his dreams were plagued by vivid scenes he'd rather not relive.

Unfortunately, tonight was no different. Harry was in his bed, limbs tangled distressfully around black, Egyptian silk sheets. His features were twisted into a glare, and his eyes were fluttering restlessly behind his eyelids. His skin looked fevered, a sheen of sweat having already gathered around his brows. His shoulders were tense and he was clutching a fistful of his sheets as he agitatedly turned his head from side to side.

He was haunted by memories tonight, just as he was any other night.

 _Loud footsteps could be heard resonating around the dark and empty corridor, sounding rushed in their purposeful strides and eager to reach their destination. Quickly, one after the other the steps fell in place, and if you listened closely enough, you could hear the faint but telling tune of a heartbroken man in flight, desperate for escape. Then, if you cared enough, you might find yourself wondering about the possible circumstances that led such a powerful man, one able to produce such heavy steps, to flee._

 _On that ordinary winter day, Hogwarts castle found Harry walking briskly down its cold hallways, trying his very best to earn his mastery in evading one Tom Marvolo Riddle._

 _Over the past week, he had been gracefully successful in avoiding him, but he was willing to bet that it was only so because Tom hadn't bothered to seek him out. He had actually acted as if he didn't exist which was fine with Harry, he very much preferred it that way. It didn't sting at all. It truly didn't._

 _Now though, now he had this foreboding feeling building inside him, telling him that his luck was about to run out on him. Probably because Tom had unfortunately managed to catch Harry's gaze before he was able to exit their shared Runes class._

 _Sure enough, just a few short steps away from being able to cleanly make his way through one of the secret passages, he heard his name being called out from behind him, freezing him in place. He stopped walking but didn't turn around. No, looking at Riddle would be a grave mistake, mostly because if he did he was liable to hex him to oblivion, but also because he didn't trust himself to look into those beautiful, deceiving grey eyes of his._

 _"Harry James Stevenson, is it me or have you been avoiding me?" Tom asked him when he was close enough to use a civilised volume, always so well mannered in public. Harry was surprised that he'd actually called his name from halfway up the corridor. It was so very unlike him and so very uncouth. He must have really wanted to talk to him. Tough._

 _Harry sighed and kept on walking, past the secret passageway and towards what promised to be a vexing conversation._

 _Tom glared at the back of his head but gave him an inch and decided to follow after him. "You're acting completely irrational," he informed him in that arrogant tone of his. Harry felt like punching him in the face, but instead, he picked up his pace and continued walking, focusing on his breathing._

 _Tom quickly caught up to him and growled impatiently next to him._

 _Not about to be pushed around, Harry instantly snapped at him. "No one asked you to run after me, Riddle," he told him, trying his best to sound callous. "If my attitude is bothering you, you can turn right back around to where you came from," he said, still not sparing him a glance._

 _It appeared that Tom was done being polite because he grabbed Harry by his arm and turned him around, bringing them both to an abrupt stop. Green crashed violently and stubbornly with grey, neither willing to submit to the other, and so they were stuck in battle._

 _"Will you stop acting like a child?" Tom snarled at him before roughly pushing Harry back into the cold stone wall._

 _Harry narrowed his eyes and shoved him away, not about to let Tom haul him around as he saw fit. "You've got some fucking nerve," he raged, still trying very hard not to punch in his perfect face. "You're unbelievable, calling me a child when you're the one that can't handle a mature relationship," he growled, no longer sounding unaffected._

 _Tom's shoulders immediately tensed as he tried to hold back a flinch at the cutting truth of that accusation._

 _Tom took in a deep breath and composed himself before things could get any further out of hand. He didn't need to make Harry any angrier with him than he already was. No, that would defeat the whole purpose of going through all this gruelling trouble in the first place._

 _What he needed was for Harry to cave and be compliant because, for some unknown reason, this man was able to hold his interest, as proven to him over the past week of his and Harry's mutual avoidance._

 _It wasn't as if he hadn't tried to forget about him and move on just as he'd done so many times before. The possibility that it would be difficult or, rather, impossible for him to do so had never even crossed his mind._

 _Once he and Harry parted ways he had honestly tried to force Harry out of his thoughts but found himself completely... incapable of doing so. He had tried everything his brilliant mind could think of, but nothing was able to entertain or keep him occupied long enough for thoughts of Harry to leave his mind. Even in his dreams, his presence tortured him, leaving him restless and troubled._

 _Unfathomable as it was, he found himself missing Harry's company, a notion which was entirely foreign to him. The worst thing was that he didn't only miss the intimate touches that seared his skin because, if he did, he could quickly dismiss those feelings as lust, which at least would be reasonable considering what a talented lover Harry was._

 _Except no, regrettably for Tom, as he took his time to examine and dissect his feelings, he discerned that he also missed his wit and honesty. How charming. Yes, and he also yearned for his refreshing perspective that disagreed with everything he believed in. Devastatingly charming, indeed._

 _It was irrational to him. He couldn't surmise why or how this man managed to provoke these… emotions from him. He only knew that he did, and yes, he was sure he did, but only because he took the whole week to research the matter thoroughly or he wouldn't be there, pathetically begging for Harry's attention._

 _So, he missed Harry. He could almost accept the truth and move on if it weren't for the simple matter that he couldn't think about anything besides that he was missing Harry. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't focus, and his appetite had completely left him. His perfectly built routine completely shattered because he missed Harry Stevenson._

 _He'd then decided that things couldn't go on as they were and that, if he wanted the boy's company, he would go out and get it. He always took what he wanted, so why should that time be any different?_

 _"Why do you have to be so difficult, Harry?" he asked him exasperatedly, defensively crossing his arms over his chest. "Why can't you simply accept my conditions so that we can go back to the way things were?" he almost pleaded, but it came out sounding more like an unsure demand, making Harry grind his teeth at the petulance of the statement._

 _"Fuck you and your conditions, Riddle," he exclaimed in a hushed tone. "You've given me an ultimatum, and I've chosen. Deal with it," he spat, his eyes glowing with barely contained rage. If Tom thought that he would just fall at his feet because he requested it, he was severely mistaken._

 _Tom allowed his hands to fall back to his side and stepped forward, pressing their chests together. "Are you telling me that you didn't enjoy our time together?" he asked him dubiously, knowing very well that Harry had enjoyed their time together, especially behind closed doors. He knew this as well as he knew that Harry cared for him. Even after everything Tom had revealed to him, Harry cared. That was also a new experience. Harry never held any judgment in his eyes for him, only ever understanding. Not that day, though. That day they burned with anger and hurt, yet surprisingly still no hatred._

 _With his face set in an indignant scowl, Harry angrily stepped away, ignoring the rush the contact between their chests sent through his body. "That doesn't mean that I'll let you turn me into one of your little puppets," he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I'm not one of your little chess pieces to manipulate into position. So fuck your conditions and your rules because I don't need you, Riddle," he shrugged, eyes glinting brightly with vengeance. "If what we have isn't important enough to you, I'm not about to bother. I'm more than capable of looking elsewhere for what you can't give me," Harry smirked, taunting him with a raised brow._

 _Tom's grey eyes instantly filled with jealousy, swirling violently with a dark need to destroy. He was unable to restrain himself when faced with such a suggestion, and a second later, Tom had Harry shoved to the wall by his throat, with his wand pointing dangerously at his vulnerable, pulsating artery. "You forget who you're talking to, Harry," he warned in a threatening whisper._

 _Harry smiled evilly before he sent the arrogant boy flying back into the opposing wall. The impact sounded painful, as did the scraping sounds his back produced as he slid down the rough bricks, disarmed and conscious because Harry wanted him to be._

 _"It's you who forgets, Tom," he sang huskily, probably enjoying the little power play more than he should._

 _Tom decided that even though moving sounded like the worst idea, lying unresponsive on the ground wasn't an option. He groaned silently in his head as he rubbed his tender shoulder and got back up on unsteady legs. He pushed up his head, wincing at the discomfort in his neck, and turned to face a smirking Harry, who had his head tilted to the side while twisting around Tom's wand between his long fingers._

 _While Tom knew that he should feel afraid of the man standing before him, all he could feel was lust at the alluring sight of Harry exhibiting such power and confidence. The lust instantly swelled in the pit of his stomach, heating up his entire body until he felt like he was about to burst with unbridled need._

 _Yes, he should definitely feel terrified of standing in front of this man disarmed and exposed, but all he wanted to do was reach out to him and pull their bodies flush together. He wanted to feel Harry's lips battling with his own, fighting him for dominance. He wanted to explore the passion and confidence he saw in his eyes. He wanted to be bent under his rough touches and gentle whispers._

 _He wanted to own him, all of him. All that passion and power, he wanted it all to himself._

 _"Fine," he said on the verge of being breathless. "I'll agree to be monogamous with you," he said, sounding convinced with his decision even as his heart clenched fearfully within his chest._

 _Harry's smirk quickly dropped off his face. "Excuse me?" he sputtered, blinking repeatedly in disbelief, because he hadn't just heard what he thought he just heard._

 _Tom took a step forward, once again closing the space between them and pressing their chests together, but this time Harry was too shocked to move away from him. "I will not repeat myself," Tom told him curtly, looking intently into his green eyes, enjoying the surprise and hope he saw growing inside those brilliant jewels. "Do we have an agreement?" he asked him with a small grin on his face, softly dropping his forehead down to Harry's._

 _"What about your conditions?" he asked him warily, not ready to accept what Tom had just said to him. Not yet._

 _"Fuck my conditions," he said, chuckling at the way Harry's eyes widened in surprise. Tom never swore._

 _Harry gulped, feeling his chest rising and falling rapidly. "First you have to say it," he told him shakily, but the seriousness in his voice couldn't be mistaken as he pleaded gently with his eyes for him not to reject his request._

 _Tom's whole body tensed, knowing very well what Harry was asking him to say. It was how their argument had started, his unwillingness to admit that he had somehow managed to develop… an attachment towards Harry. But it was undeniable now, wasn't it?_

 _Harry didn't know how long Tom kept on staring into his eyes before he finally felt him give a small nod. "I care for you, Harry," he whispered hoarsely, clearing his throat._

 _Harry gave him a brilliant smile and reached up to cup his blushing cheek. "If I find out that you've stepped out on me, Riddle, you're a dead man," he joked, but only somewhat, with a playful glare on his face._

 _Tom chuckled and shook his head. "I don't need anyone else now that I have you," he said, using the gentlest tone Harry has ever heard him use, and not a moment later he was leaning down to capture his lips in a heated kiss._

Before their lips could meet, Harry woke up with a start, drenched in sweat and trembling, an open book sprawled over his chest.

"Fuck," he swore, closing his eyes and running a shaky hand through his messy hair. "Fuck," he repeated, louder this time and more distressed.

"Buggering, fucking, fuck!" he screamed, throwing his book at the curtains surrounding his bed. He pushed away his sheets, not bothered by the chilled air that hit his skin, and climbed out of bed, pacing back and forth, forcing himself to calm down.

"Fucking bastard," he mumbled viciously under his breath before he pushed aside his curtains and got out, only to find Alphard up and awake, looking out at the Black Lake.

Alphard, having heard the slight commotion, turned around with a confused look on his weary face. "Is everything alright, Harry?" he asked him, tiredly rubbing his eyes.

Harry was stuck, unable to make up an excuse in his confused and sleep-deprived state of mind.

"Harry," he repeated, getting up from the perch next to the window. "What happened?"

"Nothing, I'm fine," he answered automatically, and it was true, nothing had really happened. His only problem was that his memories just wouldn't leave him alone, especially not in his dreams.

"Then why are you crying?" he asked, stepping forward to wipe away said tears. Harry hadn't even noticed them. He blushed and looked away, clearing his throat.

"I'd rather not talk about it," he said instead of lying. It didn't feel right to lie to Alphard.

"Where were you going at this hour? Half naked no less," he chuckled trying to lighten the mood, placing his open palm against Harry's chest.

Harry shrugged but didn't move away from him, too disorientated to notice Alphard's not so subtle advances on him. "Nowhere, I just needed to clear my head a bit," he said sounding as tired as he felt.

Alphard gave him a worried look. "Go back to bed, Harry. You look like you're about to collapse. If you'd rather, my bed is big enough for both of us," he teased him with a wink.

Harry's heart picked up, suddenly noticing the admiring way Alphard was glancing at his naked chest. Harry took a hesitant step back and tried to stop his body from reacting to his proximity.

Alphard rolled his eyes, "I'll be a perfect gentleman," he informed him. "Just thought you might like some company," he explained trying to contain his amusement, misinterpreting Harry's actions for modesty and shyness.

Harry smiled sadly and sighed. Thinking about it, yes, he would like some company, even the type of company he knew Alphard would offer if only he asked. But, he couldn't.

Harry summoned his shirt to him and shook his head. "I really need to go clear my head," he insisted, hoping his friend didn't feel rejected. "I won't be long," he reassured when he saw him about to protest.

"Suit yourself, Harry," he shrugged, fortunately not looking insulted as he made his way back to his bed. "Night," he said before closing his curtains.

"Night," Harry sighed, before pulling on his shirt.

* * *

Quidditch, of course.

Why wouldn't he be a star athlete as well?

Hadrian Peverell, the rich, smart, powerful, handsome, nice, and athletic seventh-year Slytherin student.

He won them their first game. Of course, he did.

Now everyone seemed to flock to him. Everyone. Moths, the lot of them.

After thinking back on Hadrian's first month of seclusion, it could very much have been due to the fact that he had still been grieving and adjusting. He had just lost his parents a few months ago, had he not? And wasn't it common for certain individuals to seclude themselves because of some all-consuming sadness they felt over losing a loved one? At least that was what he'd read and observed for himself.

Peverell didn't seem to be grieving any longer. Oh no, the little caterpillar had transformed into a social butterfly. He spoke and joked around with everyone, not caring about their house or blood-status.

'A person is a person, regardless of their heritage or species,' Tom had heard Harry explain to the wench Lucretia in a firm but kind tone when she had heatedly glared at him for helping a Muggle-born Hufflepuff.

'They eat, sleep, feel pain and joy, just as you do. An insult to any creature is an insult to mother Magic, for she has created us all. Do you not think that mother Magic wants harmony amongst her children? We forget all too often the wisdom and beauty of our mother. Should we not all trust in her and her reasons for creating each one of us? Should we not feel privileged to behold all wonders offered to us so generously?'

Lucretia had tears misting her grey eyes by the end of that hippy comment while Tom had tried very hard not to gag as he imagined rainbows and unicorns sprouting out Peverell's arse.

Dumbledore had also conveniently heard that hippy tripe, because of course he did. 'Take twenty points to Slytherin, Mr Peverell, for that heartwarming but very astute explanation. Maybe you would like to lead a thanks offering on Samhain, to thank our Lady mother for her generosity.'

Tom had gotten up and walked away before he could hear the rest.

Everyone loved him, even Dumbledore. Maybe especially Dumbledore.

They all loved him.

Tom could now very well imagine Peverell involved in their politics. He could also see him going very far, very quickly, what with his charm and love for everyone. Worst of all Tom didn't even think that it was faked, not even a smidgen. Peverell seemed to genuinely care.

Now Tom didn't know what had him more bewildered, the thought that he actually cared or the thought that he was that good of an actor. He had seen first hand the darkness that resided somewhere deep inside of Hadrian, all of Slytherin had, but since then Peverell had been nothing but an exemplary student.

How he hated him. Hated how he so effortlessly seemed to be everything Tom wanted to be. Hated how he smiled and laughed. Hated those dimples that appeared on his cheeks whenever he was particularly amused. Hated the way he scolded bullies and he especially hated that hero complex he seemed to have. Hated him absolutely and thoroughly.

Yet how he wanted him, craved him more desperately with each passing day. How could he want a person he has never spoken to before? How could he feel so drawn to a person that even with all their darkness, they seemed to burn brighter than any star in the sky?

No, he doesn't understand how or why, but he has become tired of questioning himself.

He would have Hadrian Peverell. Yes, he would have him soon enough. After all, he'd already set his plan in motion.

Soon enough Tom would no longer be just another fourth-year to Peverell. He'd pique his curiosity, charm his heart, and seduce his senses. He'd make sure that he won't wake or go to sleep without thoughts of him on his mind. That no aspect of his life would be left free of the need to be shared with Tom.

He'd made peace with his obsession, hoping that its intensity would fade once he finally got what he so desperately desired, which would be soon enough.

* * *

It was Friday and the last class of the day had just let out. Harry was packing his things away, getting ready to leave the Potions classroom, when Professor Slughorn called out and asked him to stay behind.

Alphard gave him a curious tilt of his head, but Harry just shrugged and pointed his head towards the door, silently telling him that he would catch up later.

Without another word, he left the classroom and Harry alone with the Professor.

"Am I in trouble, Professor?" he asked the weary-looking man. He tried his very best to keep the man happy with his work, knowing that while he was annoying, at some point his connections could be very useful to him. So because of his vigilant work and attendance, he couldn't see what he could have possibly done to upset the man.

"Nothing like that, my boy!" he assured quickly, giving him a large smile.

Harry stopped himself from raising his eyebrows and smiled politely back instead. "Then how can I be of assistance, Sir?" he asked him, curious to see what the man could possibly want from him.

"You see, I was hoping to ask you for a favour," he started, and Harry already didn't like where this was going.

"Yes?" he prompted ever politely, trying very hard to keep his impatience locked away and unseen.

He didn't see Death around, but he was pretty sure he heard him sniggering somewhere in the distance. It was the kind of sniggering that indicated that an evil plan was about to unfold. It made Harry feel uneasy, to say the least.

"One of my Slytherin fourth-year students has requested a tutor for the Defense Against the Dark Arts class. He's a brilliant student, and in my personal opinion doesn't need any tutoring, but the boy is in complete devastation over his first ever Exceeded Expectations," he said, widening his eyes as he remembered how lost and helpless the boy had looked. It had been heartbreaking, really.

That conniving little rat. Both those conniving little rats!

Harry already knew who this brilliant student was, and so did Death. Death was probably the one that planted the idea in the boy's head to begin with.

"I've spoken to Professor Merrythought, and she mentioned that you are by far her best student, even if you seem to be hiding your true potential. Now, I wasn't very happy to hear about this tidbit of information, but I will let it slide if I hear that you are involving yourself more in your lessons. I won't have any wasted potential in my house," he reprimanded, and Harry could almost imagine him wagging a disappointed finger at him.

Before Harry could say anything in his defence, Slughorn went on. "Right, now that is settled, back to the primary matter at hand. Tom Riddle has requested a few tutoring lessons, and I think that you will be the perfect candidate to reassure him that this one EE is simply a fluke and that he will be back to his usual O standards in no time."

That didn't sound much like a request to Harry.

"While I could ask a number of other students to do this, you've shown so much school spirit over the past month that I thought you would jump at the opportunity to help out a fellow Slytherin student." In other words, no one else was as friendly or approachable as him. Brilliant.

"Splendid, Mr Peverell. I am so very grateful for your help. Take ten points to Slytherin for house unity! Yes, yes. I have a feeling that you will be going very far, Mr Peverell, very far indeed."

Not a request, then.

"Thank you, Sir. I shall endeavour to make our house proud," he said, not quite able to keep out the sarcasm from the statement. But, Merlin bless him, Slughorn was as oblivious as always, nodding and smiling away happily.

So, it would seem that Tom Riddle was done being ignored by him, meaning that the first part of his plan was working perfectly, and it took a lot less time than he thought it would.

The only drawback he saw was that he wasn't going to be able to avoid Tom anymore. Bullocks.

* * *

 **November 13th, 1941  
**

 **Castle Grounds**

The next day Harry was lounging around on the fresh grass in front of the Black Lake with Fleamont and Alphard. Curiously enough they both got along... maybe not well, but they were civil enough, even if he suspected it was more to set his mind at ease than any actual camaraderie forming between them.

It was well past midday when a figure came and blocked their sun, clearing their throat behind them. Instantly, Harry had to stop himself from outwardly reacting to the new arrival, knowing exactly who it was that was unashamedly blocking their sun.

All three seventh-years turned around to see who came to disturb their peace, the other two surprised to see that it was Tom Riddle interrupting their relaxing Saturday afternoon.

Fleamont frowned at the little Slytherin but said nothing. Alphard, on the other hand, looked about ready to insult him or curse him.

"Riddle, right?" Harry decided to ask him with a cautious smile, hoping Alphard would get the message to shut up.

"Yes," Tom agreed, not looking the least bit intimidated by the upper-years he faced. "Do you think it is possible for us to talk in private for a moment, Peverell?" he asked him politely with a charming smile in place, not showing at all how much it hurt for him to request instead of demand. But Harry knew, knew that it hurt him a great deal. He also knew that it was particularly difficult for Tom to admit his shortcomings, which is why he was still very surprised that Tom decided to take this route to introduce himself into his life.

"It's getting rather chilly out here, might as well head back to the castle," he said, brushing off the dirt from his knees. "We can have your chat on our way in," he agreed reluctantly as he got up, heart beating erratically in his chest. "I'll see you after dinner Fleamont. Library?" he asked, proud that he didn't stumble his way through his words with the way his nerves were all jumbled.

"Yeah, we'll walk together," Fleamont agreed with a winning smile, which quickly turned into a frown when his eyes landed on Riddle. His eyes seemed to warn Tom not to try any funny business. How cute, Harry's grandfather was still looking out for him, even after he'd seen that he was perfectly capable of handling himself.

"Alphard?" Harry asked, knowing that the other boy would understand. It was truly a wonder how their friendship had developed over the past few months.

"Dinner," he agreed, not taking his hostile and calculating eyes off Riddle. That might be a problem in future, but Harry decided to deal with one issue at a time.

With one last nod, he turned and started following after Tom, waiting for him to break the ice between them, curiously wondering what it was that he would say to him first.

It took a while, but eventually, Tom spoke. "Professor Slughorn has informed me that he has assigned you as my tutor," he started in a natural tone, giving him a short side glance as they walked towards the castle entrance.

Harry raised his eyebrows but kept his face impassive. No pleasantries, then, and right to the point. It was so very typical of him that Harry felt an almost unstoppable urge to smile wildly at the boy walking by his side. It has been so long, so very long since they had spoken so casually together. Even in their last weeks together, the tension had grown so much that it extinguished any playfulness and ease that had developed between them.

It had been so long, and he missed him, missed _him_ too much to put to words. He longed to rush this all along and hold him in his arms. That's what he wanted, it's what he'd wanted long before they came back here. But that didn't mean that he was going to throw away all of his plans and make it easy for Tom. No, it needed to be a slow but sure process. The world depended on that.

Tom waited patiently for a good few minutes in silence before breaking it. "I assure you that I am a fast learner, and that I will not take up a lot of your time. This was the first EE that I've ever received, and I intend to make sure that it is my last. I think that a month should suffice to ensure such results," he said, keeping a tight leash on his frustration. He turned around and gave Harry his most charming smile while on the inside he was raving and screaming.

How was it that Hadrian Peverell seemed utterly unaffected by him? In fact, he looked positively peeved with him, and his silence wasn't exactly convincing him otherwise.

Was it something Alphard said to him, or maybe Dumbledore? It was possible, also probable, but Peverell wasn't the type to let other people's opinion affect his judgment.

Tom himself had never acted anything but exemplary in public, which meant it couldn't have been anything he had done. Yet here Peverell was, acting as if he would rather be anywhere else but there with him. He would dismiss it as annoyance at having to tutor a fourth-year, but it felt deeper than that. It was the way he wouldn't look directly into his eyes and that unusual tension in his shoulders.

Harry's heart didn't skip a beat when he saw that beautiful smile, however insincere he knew it was—it didn't.

He gulped silently and threw Tom a small grin. "Slughorn mentioned as much," he decided to finally say, running an agitated hand through his hair. "I need to warn you, I can't have this clashing with any quidditch practice. Thursday evening after classes is about the only time I have available. Would that be agreeable with you?"

He wasn't really asking, not when he had already clearly stated that it was the only time he was free to help him. He wasn't exactly being impolite, but something about his tone rubbed Tom the wrong way. It was so… not reluctant, even if it was obvious that he was. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something off with the way Peverell was acting with him. The best he could describe it would be strained.

"I should manage," Tom managed to say without letting on how confused he felt.

This wasn't at all how he'd imagined this would go. There were no piqued interests or charmed hearts, and he'd definitely not been given the chance to seduce him. No, it wasn't going at all as he'd imagined.

"Right," Harry nodded, once again running a hand through his hair. "I'll see you in the library at five on Thursday," he said and, without another word, turned the other direction and took his leave from Tom's company.

Tom stood at the castle entrance completely dumbfounded and lost at the turn of events.

Something just didn't fit.

Hadrian Peverell liked everyone in the castle, in the whole damned world, except, it seemed, Tom Riddle. There was no other or more gentle way to put it. Hadrian Peverell just didn't like him.

Harry was usually more than excited to socialise, friendly smirk always on his lips. There should have been no reason for him not to act in the same friendly manner with Tom, and the prospect that he might not hadn't even crossed his mind. But somehow, for some reason Tom couldn't see, Harry didn't like him. Period. Instead, he seemed agitated and uncomfortable, almost irritated by his presence. Leaving as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

For some reason, Peverell didn't like him, and that thought settled a heavy rock in the pit of his stomach.

Tom clenched his jaw and made his way to the dungeons, his eyes alight with fury.

Hadrian Peverell may not like him at this present time, but that would change.

One day soon he'd have him on his back, begging to be touched by him—begging to take him.

One day soon he wouldn't be able to live without him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 **November 18th, 1941**

 **Slytherin Dungeons**

As hard as it had been, over the past few days, Harry had successfully managed to push aside all thoughts of his impending tutoring session with Tom. He resolutely refused to be bent into a frantic state of nervousness over something as simple and innocent as a _tutoring session._

So Harry had neatly tucked away any and all thoughts of Tom into a box that was stored on a shelf at the very back of his consciousness. He then proceeded to build an impenetrable barrier around the box in addition to the ones that had already been set in place.

But now—with only forty minutes left on the clock for him to get to the library—all the emotions and thoughts he'd been so desperately trying to box away tore out of its confines, unleashing onto him a violent storm.

 _Merlin,_ it was just so embarrassing for him to feel such trepidation towards spending time with a fourteen-year-old. Yet all his anxiety and nervousness weren't able to quench the unjustifiable exuberance he felt towards the prospect of spending time with _Tom_.

It was precisely because of this exultant feeling that was dominating his emotions that he'd tried so hard to lock away all thoughts of Tom. He didn't want to feel triumphant and exhilarated at the mere notion of spending time with the boy had that broken him so many times, in so many different ways.

It was too easy to ignore, to disregard and overlook the potential the boy had to destroy him. So very easy to forget that this beautiful boy had the potential to grow into a grotesque monster driven by fear and bloodlust.

It was a delicate matter, dancing on the edge as he was. Balancing between loving and loathing him.

He could never allow himself to tip to either side.

Could never allow himself to love him more than he despised him.

Could never allow his desire for him to overpower the repulsion he felt.

If he did, he would inevitably forget. He would lose himself in Tom and there would be nothing left of himself.

He'd forgive him and he'd forget, allowing Tom the opening he needed to once again destroy his world… and whatever was left of his heart.

He could never allow that to happen.

So he danced and pushed and pulled—always and forevermore pushing himself, then reeling himself back in.

Yes, it was a delicate matter indeed. Delicate and deadly.

He knew very well that he couldn't permit his emotions to cloud his judgment, and he was also perfectly aware that he couldn't afford any slips in his composure.

There was no room for him to err. He needed to be calm and collected; poised and in absolute control of his actions and emotions.

Yet he was helpless to the onslaught of emotional waves crashing against each other, each a contradiction to the other, rolling roughly and fighting to dominate.

He was a slave to the storm, pushed and dragged to the powerful whims of the rough currents.

Dragged down, down, down—always deeper and steeper—further down and onwards into the heart of the storm.

All his training and all his centuries of experience were no match against the raw and inexplicable emotions that were tightly woven into his heart.

True love is held back by no logic and is restrained by no barrier. True love is unshakable, its sting embedded into your very being and thus changing you forever. You cannot outrun it, nor can you protect yourself from its venom.

And it was because of all those reasons that Harry found himself fretting over something as trivial as his choice in wardrobe.

He was utterly _pathetic_.

Right now, Harry, with a green towel wrapped around his waist and still dripping wet from the shower, was agitatedly rummaging through his closet trying to find something suitable to wear to impress Tom. _Impress_ Tom.

He was utterly wracked with nerves and the state in which his corner of their shared dorm room found itself in reflected as much.

Several articles of clothing were scattered on the floor and on his bed, and more were still following as Harry irrationally felt that none of them were appropriate.

"I highly doubt that your choice in clothing is going to make much of a difference to Riddle," Death drawled as he watched yet another pair of pants be carelessly discarded to the side.

"I didn't ask you to come and watch me get ready, so just bugger off and go do some soul collecting, or whatever it is you do when you're not around to make me miserable," Harry snarked back, head still buried in his closet.

Death scoffed and shook his head. "And miss you bumbling about like a fool? I think not, friend."

Harry grumbled something unintelligible under his breath then straightened his back and emerged from the depths of his closet with a pile of clothes in his hands. He slammed his closet door shut and turned to face Death with a dark glare fixed on his face and a warning glinting dangerously behind his eyes.

"I can't possibly begin to guess what you've got planned, but whatever it is isn't going to happen," he told him, forcefully punctuating each word to make sure that his friend understood that he wasn't playing around. "I don't want to see or hear you anywhere near us this evening. Is that understood?" he demanded, taking a threatening forward and looking straight into the abyss of Death's hood, unafraid of the void he saw.

"Where's the fun in that, Harry, darling?" Death crooned sinisterly, not at all intimidated by Harry's threatening presence.

"I'm not fucking joking," Harry growled through clenched teeth. "You've meddled enough as it is. Don't think for a second that I don't know that you're the one that planted this idiotic idea in his head."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Death said in a faux perplexed tone that grated at Harry's fraying nerves.

Harry groaned and turned his back to Death, deciding that an argument was a waste of his time.

"Just don't bother me tonight. You got what you wanted, now let me handle the rest," he said before allowing the towel to drop from his waist so that he could change

"As well as you're handling your choice in attire?" Death couldn't help but quip back, dodging the heavy belt Harry threw his way.

"As well as I'll skin your hide if you don't shut the hell up," he threatened as he pulled up his pants.

Death's lack of response almost made Harry turn around, but as soon as Harry fastened his black trousers Alphard barged into their dorm room looking puzzled.

"Harry? Who were you talking to?" he asked, looking around the room and clearly searching for someone.

"Myself," Harry was quick to supply, sending Death a glare that could rival his own.

"I could swear I heard you say something about skinning someone's hide... and what in Morgana's name happened in here!" he exclaimed, utterly bewildered by the mess Harry had made on his side of the room.

Harry never allowed his area to get into this state of disarray. He was rather neurotic in his tendency to keep everything neat and in order. So it was quite the shock to Alphard's system to witness this when just this morning Harry had scolded him about a set of school robes he'd forgotten to put away the night before.

"Nothing, just couldn't find this shirt," Harry admitted sheepishly, innocently holding up said shirt he'd apparently been searching for.

"What's all this fuss about then? Where are you going?" Alphard asked him curiously, immediately narrowing his eyes when he noticed the nice looking dark green shirt Harry was buttoning up.

"Nowhere, really. Right now I'm probably late for my first tutoring session with Riddle," he sighed, casting a quick tempus and cringing when his suspicions were confirmed.

Alphard frowned and threw his bag onto his bed with a touch too much force. "I forgot about that. I still don't understand why you didn't just tell Riddle to bugger off."

The fact that Tom Riddle was somewhat of a prodigy was no secret. The thought that he might need tutoring was laughable. So really, when Tom Riddle was suddenly asking for tutoring you simply knew that it was part of some ploy.

Tom Riddle was the worst kind of bad news, and Alphard didn't want to see his friend falling in with the likes of _him_.

It was far too easy to fall for Tom Riddle's charm. He'd seen many of his housemates and peers fall for the younger boy's charismatic presence, which was unfortunately only aided by the angelic face he was blessed with. He'd always been a beautiful child, and as he grew older his striking features became even more pronounced, captivating almost everyone that had the pleasure of laying their eyes on him.

He was beautiful, much too beautiful.

His face made you forget the monster that lurks beneath the mask. Made you forget about the venom that flowed through the boy's blood. Made you forget just exactly why Tom Riddle was the unopposed Serpent King of Slytherin.

Harry threw Alphard an exasperated look, having already had this argument with him before.

"Slughorn approached me first. I could hardly say no to Slughorn," he reminded Alphard as he slipped on his dark grey waistcoat.

"I don't know what game he's playing, but that boy doesn't need any tutoring, Hadrian," Alphard warned him once again, frustrated by the fact that even after he'd specifically warned him away from the boy, Harry was still going go along and play right into his hand.

"Slughorn mentioned as much," he shrugged, turning around to face his mirror, "and I'm perfectly aware that Riddle has an agenda. I'm not as ignorant to inter-house politics as you might think, Alphard. But I'm fairly confident that I can handle myself against a fourth-year, even if he is a prodigy. Besides, I'm curious about the little Slytherin King whose name is on everyone's lips. Now, I would really appreciate it if we could drop this argument," he finished with a clipped tone, prepared to ignore any further protests from his friend.

Alphard sighed but relented, knowing that he wasn't going to be able to talk him out of it. Instead, he watched his friend as he fixed and tidied his shirt, then gave himself a once over in the mirror before a small approving smile graced his lips.

He untied his hair and ran his hand through the shoulder-length waves, trying to comb out any knots that might have formed through the day.

Harry was the type of person that always made sure to look his best, but he didn't _primp_. He never put too much care into his appearance. His perfection was always casually and effortlessly attained since he was much too handsome to look anything other than perfect, and he knew that.

So Alphard couldn't help but notice the extra care Harry was investing in himself this evening.

"Is there a specific reason why you're primping yourself before a tutoring session with Riddle?" he asked crisply, unable to effectively mask the jealousy he felt stirring in his heart.

Hadrian couldn't possibly be... interested in Tom Riddle, could he?

Harry paused his fingers mid-comb and locked his eyes onto his friend's through the mirror.

Harry wasn't blind to Alphard's feelings for him, so he couldn't help but feel guilty when he caught the hurt and jealous glint in his eyes.

He would need to find a way to gently dissuade his feelings, because the last thing he wanted was for Alphard to get hurt.

Alphard narrowed his grey eyes at Harry, but before he could utter another word Orion burst into their room with his bag swinging casually behind him.

"Har-ry," he sang. "Are you done yet? Woah, looking particularly fancy this evening, Peverell," he complimented him with a small but sincere smile, blissfully ignorant to the fact that his innocent compliment had just raised the tension in the room tenfold.

With one last glance at Alphard, Harry quickly tied his hair into a low and elegant ponytail, then he turned to face his friends.

"Thanks, Orion," he mumbled, giving the oblivious boy a tense smile.

Alphard just glared at both of them before he gave a resigned sigh and threw himself onto his bed with a groan.

Orion looked between the two, confused with the exchange. When Alphard buried his face in his pillow he turned his questioning gaze onto Harry. "What's wrong with him?"

Harry forced a grin and shrugged, cupping the side of his mouth with his palm as if to share a secret. "It's probably that time of the month," he whispered loud enough for Alphard to hear, hoping that it would diffuse this awkward tension in the room.

Alphard was quick to send a pillow flying Harry's way while Orion rolled his eyes at them. 'And people dared call _him_ immature,' he thought, crossing his arms over his chest.

"If you two are quite done, Harry and I have places to be and things to do. Don't we, Harry?"

Harry hummed and nodded his head in agreement. "Right you are, Orion," he said and went to grab his bag from under a pile of his clothes.

On their way out, Alphard called out one last warning to Harry. "Don't say I didn't warn you when you find yourself being fed to a snake in the Forbidden Forest!" he exclaimed before Harry slammed the door shut on him.

Orion looked at Harry and back at the firmly shut door. "What was that about?"

"Dunno," Harry shrugged, keeping his eyes set firmly in front of him as they made their way out of the Slytherin common room.

Orion opened his mouth to press the issue, but he seemed to notice Harry's reluctance to share and decided against it.

Harry gave him an appreciative smile and went back to mentally preparing himself for the upcoming dance.

 _Let the music begin_ , he thought wearily as the common room door slammed ominously behind them.

* * *

Tom was comfortably seated at one of the more secluded tables in the library, working on the thirteen-inch Arithmancy essay he'd been assigned that day while trying not to think about Peverell, who was already running five minutes late.

Over the past few days, he had done his best not to allow his thoughts to linger on the indifference Peverell had shown him, but it had been impossible to ignore. It nagged at him at all hours of the day, unrelenting in its persistence.

He wouldn't have felt this unease or concern if there wasn't such a stark difference in Hadrian's attitude towards everyone else in the school.

After their small exchange, Tom had watched the man's interactions even more closely, wanting to determine if he really was the only one treated with this type of open disregard.

Unfortunately, his observations concluded that he was indeed the only person in the castle Hadrian Peverell acted towards with such apathetic dismissal.

 _What had he done to deserve such treatment?_ Over and over again he asked himself that one question, never coming closer to a feasible explanation.

Before he could continue distracting himself from his unfinished essay with more troubling and vexing thoughts on why Peverell disliked him, he caught sight of the man himself entering the library... with Orion Black just a step behind him.

Tom's mood darkened at the sight of the fifth-year Slytherin, and he hoped that the boy wouldn't be staying with them throughout the whole duration of their tutoring session. If Peverell did invite Black to stay with them, there was nothing Tom could do about it. He couldn't risk seeming rude when this was his chance to charm the older boy and redeem himself from whatever opinion he had already formed.

Once Peverell was close enough for Tom to notice exactly what he was wearing, he was sharply robbed of all the breath in his lungs and any coherent thought.

The dark green shirt he wore hugged his arms and torso in a way that showed off the strong muscle one could find under his skin. His black pants fit low on his waist while the grey button-up waistcoat fit him snugly, allowing him to look deliciously sinful and absolutely ravishing.

Tom had to look away from him and actively think of something absolutely repulsive to battle off the flush he could feel rising up his neck.

"Riddle," Harry nodded in friendly greeting, dropping his bag on one of the available chairs around Tom's chosen table.

"Peverell," Tom acknowledged with a small, innocent smile, rolling up the essay he had been working on to buy himself some more time to compose himself. "Black," he inclined his head, having decided that it was in his best interest to act completely cordial with the fifth-year in Peverell's presence.

"Riddle," Orion grumbled, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at Tom's unusually civil demeanour towards him. It was, after all, no secret that Tom despised all the Blacks residing within the castle, with Cygnus being the only exception.

"My sincerest apologies for running late, Riddle," Peverell apologised as he took a seat, but gave no excuse for his tardiness.

Tom simply shrugged. "None needed," he waved off. While he wasn't exactly thrilled about being left waiting, he was more concerned about the fact that Orion Black was sitting at his table, but he didn't say anything about that either.

Hadrian must have caught Tom's eyes flickering towards Orion because he turned to Tom with a rueful grin on his face and explained.

"Right, Orion is here because he's helping me with a side project I'm working on. He's going to be drowning in books in about ten minutes, so don't worry, you'll have my undivided attention," he reassured him.

Tom gave a nod and felt himself relax. At least Black would be too occupied to interfere.

Harry swiftly pulled out a folded piece of parchment from his bag and handed it over to Black.

"These are the books we need to find. Just compile a list with all the relevant instances you find, including the reference so that it'll be easier to integrate later," Peverell instructed him, pushing him towards the towering aisles of books. "Just remember that you're the one that signed up to help when you get a headache from all the tiny script, okay?"

Without another word, Orion strutted away, more than content to leave Riddle's company.

"What is it that you're working on?" Tom asked genuinely curious, and then hastily added, "If you don't mind me asking, that is," not wanting to somehow offend the older boy simply because he wasn't able to curb his curiosity.

Harry stopped taking out his things from his bag and turned his green eyes to look at Tom.

So polite and, in a way, completely unrecognisable. Even his eyes were a brighter shade of grey, lacking the madness of a torn soul.

"I don't mind, but it's all very boring stuff. Over the past summer, I took my rightful seat in the Wizengamot, and I'm currently working on a few legislations I wish to introduce in the near future. Orion has generously offered to help me with some of the tedious research that needs to be done before I'm able to introduce them to the Wizengamot," he explained without really giving an answer.

Tom wasn't fooled by the non-answer, and it only served to increase his curiosity.

"What kind of legislation?" Tom asked before he could restrain himself, earning himself a sharp look from Peverell.

"Aren't I meant to be tutoring you in DADA?" Harry asked a touch too sternly.

Tom lowered his eyes and gave him a reluctant nod, clearly disappointed at having been denied an answer but unwilling to further upset the man with more probing.

Harry was as eager to discuss his plans with Tom as Tom was to hear them.

But he couldn't do that, not yet. It wasn't the time to discuss all the ways he wanted to change the world.

Once he was sure that all the pieces were falling into place and he successfully secured Tom's loyalty, he'd include him, but only then.

He would, however, give him a small crumb to sate some of his curiosity.

Harry allowed an apologetic smile to grace his lips. "I'm sorry for being so abrupt with you, Riddle. I know what it's like to have an overly curious mind. Knowledge is power after all, and I can appreciate that in sharp mind such as yours."

Tom tried not to let the small compliment get to him, but it did. He was pleased to know that at the very least Peverell had heard about his abilities.

"I'm young still, but I've got a few changes I wish to make that I believe will serve for the betterment of our world. I find that we have lost our ways amidst all the prejudice and conflict. Fear and injustice rule our laws and as the years pass us by we descend further into self-destruction. The public is blind and unaware, content with being oblivious to all the problems and dangers that surround us. We are so weak that we allowed an individual wizard with a vision reap chaos across several nations. Changes must be made if we want to survive."

Tom couldn't help but hang onto every word that Peverell said, carefully filing away every word that slipped from between his lips. It was clear to anyone who dared to take a closer look that this was a subject Peverell was very passionate about.

While Tom agreed with everything he'd said so far, he noticed that Peverell hadn't really said much at all. He'd revealed nothing of his beliefs. One had to admire Peverell's skill.

Anyone else would have probably mindlessly nodded their head, swiftly agreeing without really knowing what they were agreeing with, but Tom was no such fool.

"That's all very well put, but it doesn't reveal any of your intentions," he pointed out. "Everyone has a different opinion on what actions define progress. For all I know your ideas for a better world align directly with Grindelwald's vision."

Harry took his time to look thoroughly insulted. "Do I really look like someone who would condone mindless slaughter?"

"You don't," Tom was quick to agree, "but that wasn't the argument I was trying to make."

Harry chuckled, "Point taken, Riddle. I simply strive for equality and justice. For a world that judges you for your own merits, and where tradition and progress need not be enemies."

"Some might say that those are idealistic goals to have," Tom said before he could bite his tongue.

Harry gave a small, sardonic laugh at that and leaned back into his chair. "There's no need to be so kind, Riddle. Unrealistic is what most people would call it, but I believe that I can prove them wrong. I won't allow general opinion to stand in the way of my ambitions."

Tom nodded his head, able to respect and empathise with such sentiment.

He took a moment to mull over Peverell's previous statement and frowned. "Does your pursuit for equality draw a line at magical people and creatures or does it also extend towards the muggles?"

Harry hesitated for a moment before coming to the conclusion that sharing his beliefs with Tom could hardly be construed as involving him in his plans.

"I believe that the muggles are invaluable to us," he admitted, not looking away from Tom as he said this, "But I also believe that it is imperative that we ensure that the Statute of Secrecy is upheld."

"You do?" Tom asked him dubiously. "Aren't you somewhat contradicting yourself? You don't want them to know about us yet you claim to find them invaluable to our existence."

"Precisely," Harry agreed, earning himself an irritated scowl from the younger boy.

"I see that our tutoring session is going to go brilliantly," came Tom's sarcastic reply.

"It's simple, really," Peverell said, and while Tom wanted desperately to comment otherwise, he kept his mouth shut and listened. "Sure, it took the muggles about two hundred thousand years, but they finally managed to invent electricity. In 1879, Thomas Edison continued exploring Franklin's research and managed to make the first ever light bulb. Since then, their evolution has been rapidly picking up. Just look at the firearms they use. In 1892 they introduced automatic handguns. Now they have nuclear weapons, bombs that could destroy whole countries. These are not threats to joke about or take lightly," he explained solemnly.

Tom tried to hide away the haunting look that crept over his face, but Harry saw the shadows that crossed over his beautiful grey eyes.

"I know," Tom whispered, still looking away from him. His mind was back at the orphanage, with sirens blaring loudly in his ears, warning everyone of the impending bombing and the devastating destruction they brought along with them.

"Then you can understand why they must never find out that we exist. While I do believe that we need muggles, we simply cannot trust them not to turn on us should they ever find out about our existence. The number of muggles willing to understand and accept us would be far outweighed by those too afraid of what they cannot understand. The unknown breeds fear, and fear leads to addled minds and unnecessary violence."

Peverell was right. Muggles could never be given the chance to break war against them. They would destroy too much with their abominable inventions.

"Yet you say we need them," Tom said, hoping that he would elaborate and move on from the subject of muggle war.

"What we need is fresh blood to be combined into our bloodlines. Since the witch hunts, wizards and witches have been wary of mingling with the muggles, not that they can be blamed. But because of our separation from them, our numbers have been steadily dwindling," he explained. "Talents that used to be the reason for a house's pride no longer appeared. The number of squibs has been increasing, and I don't even want to start discussing the general population in terms of magical strength," Harry scoffed, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

"What you're saying is that because the majority of the wizarding world is inbred, we've become stagnant." It wasn't that Tom disagreed with him, on the contrary. It was simply highly unusual for a pureblood of his standing to openly comment about such things. But then again, none of the other purebloods strived for equality.

"Precisely," Harry agreed with a self-satisfied grin. It was sort of adorable. "Do you disagree?" he asked him, leaning forward in his chair.

"I don't," he admitted reluctantly. "But we now come full circle back to your contradiction," Tom noted with a smirk on his face.

Harry shook his head still grinning.

Tom perked a questioning eyebrow and waited patiently for the reveal.

"Just because we need to enforce the Statute of Secrecy, doesn't mean that wizards and witches shouldn't integrate themselves into the muggle world. It's our ignorance of the muggle world that puts us in danger. If we are better educated and able to blend in with them, it wouldn't be so hard to go out into their world and meet a beautiful and supportive muggle woman or man to settle down with and have a family. Those willing to enter our world simply need to be ready to abide by our laws and learn our traditions. It's not all that different from following the customs of your host country while being a guest on foreign land. Why shouldn't those accepting of us be given the opportunity to behold all the wonders of our magical world? Those unaccepting are easily dealt with if the regulations concerning such matters are revised and better enforced."

Tom's face remained cool and impassive while he catalogued all the new information that was being offered to him.

"You are essentially planning to alter twelve generations' worth of conditioned thinking." Tom sounded moderately impressed.

Harry hummed and chuckled. "Yes, that sums it up neatly, Riddle."

"That also sounds like more than just one legislation you'll be working on."

Harry blinked at that statement and cursed himself internally, realising that he might have said more than he had initially intended to.

Deciding that they had discussed enough of his views, Harry quickly changed the subject. "You're right, and it's all so very boring. Tell me about that EE you got. Do you have the essay with you?"

Tom didn't understand what had prompted Peverell to suddenly retreat back into himself and change the subject but decided to let it slide, having gotten more than enough information to dissect later on.

Tom couldn't help but notice that, as Peverell settled into his company, he seemed far friendlier than their previous interaction.

Maybe all of Tom's worries had been for naught.

Tom handed Peverell his purposely inadequately written essay, trying to contain the distasteful sneer that fought against his thin-pressed lips. He really hated having to show even the slightest bit of incompetence, yet here he was, asking for tutoring lessons from the man he was trying to woo.

He honestly had no idea what he had been thinking when he decided to go along with this plan his sleep-deprived mind had come up with.

The following hour was spent with Peverell explaining the many different shielding charms and spells used to defend oneself in various situations. He hated to admit it, but there had been a few facts that he hadn't thought about and found that he was actually learning some things from Peverell.

Hadrian Peverell was a complete enigma. He believed in freedom and evolution, yet had a healthy respect for the muggles, enough to not let it blind him from the threat that they could pose.

He spoke with passion and conviction, but his words weren't just beautiful and empty. He presented arguments that had several valid points to them, backed by undeniable truths that would drive even the most hard-headed wizard to deep contemplation.

These goals Peverell has set out for himself seem to be intimately entwined with his own. But what about his views on the Dark Arts? Were they also of similar mind on the matter? Could it be possible that they were more alike than he could have ever hoped for?

"I think we can wrap it up for today, Riddle. Did Professor Merrythought give you a date when to hand in the essay?" He asked him, shuffling through the parchment he had used to scribble his explanation on.

"Yes, she did," he said absent-minded, still lost in thought.

"And?" Peverell prompted him with a poke to his arm, jarring him from his thoughts.

"Tomorrow. I have to give it in tomorrow," he said, drawing a wide-eyed look from Peverell.

"Tomorrow? Why didn't you say anything when we agreed to meet today?"

"It didn't sound like you had much time for me otherwise," Tom reminded him, nodding in thanks when Peverell handed him his notes for referral.

"Right, I apologise if I was rude or anything," Harry winced, looking away from the beautiful boy.

"You weren't," he reassured him with a charming smile. He was more than willing to forget about their disastrous first meeting.

Then suddenly Black appeared from behind the towering shelves.

"I'm famished," Orion groaned, dropping ungracefully into the available chair next to Hadrian while pushing a large pile of parchment towards him. "And I still need to go to the owlery before dinner," he moaned, dropping his forehead onto the table.

"That, my dear friend, is called tough luck," Harry teased him with a friendly pat on his back. He took the offered parchment and browsed through the list Orion had so generously made for him.

"Does that mean you're not going to escort me?" he asked him with a wobbly pout. "After all this hard work I did for you?"

"Apologies, Orion. But I already promised young Riddle here that I would escort him to the great hall for dinner," he told him with a noticeably fake apologetic smile.

Peverell had done no such thing, but Tom wasn't about to complain about his extended company.

"You're a rotten friend, Peverell," Orion informed him nasally.

"I hold deep affection towards you, as well, Orion dear," Harry mumbled distractedly, his eyes still looking through the long list Orion compiled for him. "Good work," he looked up to say but noticed that Orion was already walking away in a huff.

"Your friend seems to already have taken his leave," Tom pointed out uselessly with an amused smirk tugging on his lips.

"Yes, he gets that way when he's hungry," Harry explained with a shrug while gathering his belongings. "Speaking of, shall we head to dinner? I'm starting to feel famished myself," he admitted, rubbing his growling stomach.

"Is that why you lied to Black?" Tom asked as he got up and followed after him.

"No, that was because I didn't feel like spending the next half-hour listening to him moon over his betrothed," he confessed sheepishly, a boyish grin gracing his lips while he rubbed the back of his neck.

Tom felt somewhat disappointed at the confession but didn't let it show. So what if Peverell hadn't lied just to spend more time with him? The result was the same, so he would enjoy it as such.

After a few moments of comfortable silence passing between them, Tom turned to look at him with that angelic face of his. "Thank you, Peverell. For taking the time to tutor me this evening. Your help has been greatly appreciated," he told him, daring to reach out and touch the older boy's arm.

Warmth spread along his fingers where he touched him, and Tom had to restrain himself from reacting to the soothing feeling.

Harry, much the same, was trying to ignore the warm shivers he got from Tom's gentle touch.

Trying very hard not to look down and stare at the appendage that was touching him, Harry gulped silently before answering. "It was no problem," he smiled before quickly looking away from the tempting boy, because that's what he still was - a boy.

As mature and grown-up as he liked to think he was, Tom was nothing but a lost boy in dire need of some guidance.

He wouldn't allow his physical attraction towards him to derail any improvement he managed to make with him.

This time it couldn't be about how good they made each other feel in bed. Before Harry was anywhere near ready to venture down that road he needed to feel secure in their relationship—whatever type of relationship they may have.

Also, the fact that Tom was still only fourteen made him feel like a dirty paedophile, even if he knew very well that he'd never think about any other _young adolescents_ that way.

Tom… damn it. Tom was just Tom. He'd always be able to make Harry's heart beat frantically in his chest. It was the curse of love.

"I think that next time we should focus more on the practical side of the shields. Knowing about them is all well and good, but when it matters you need to be able to produce the shield you want to protect yourself with."

Tom bristle slightly at the implication that he wasn't able to produce a simple shield charm and dropped his hand from Peverell's shoulder as if burned.

"I already know how to cast a Protego," _thank you very much_ , he continued silently with his eyes and the way he pulled on the strap of his bag.

Harry threw him a disappointed frown. "And that's the only shield we've discussed today?" he asked expectantly.

"No, but all the others aren't taught until our fifth or sixth year. Not to mention the Patronus has been completely removed from our curriculum," Tom pointed out.

"Do you remember me mentioning that most of the inhabitants of the wizarding world are powerless buffoons?" Harry asked him.

Well, he hadn't said it in those words exactly, but something along those lines. He couldn't see how that was relevant to-

"Do you consider yourself to be one of those powerless buffoons, Riddle?" he asked him with a raised brow.

Right. That's how it was relevant.

"I don't," he told him firmly, turning hard grey eyes to glare at him.

"I didn't think so," Harry agreed. "So why should you hold yourself to a timetable set for those less capable?" he asked him rhetorically, not expecting him to answer. But when did Tom ever do as he expected?

"I don't. I'm further ahead than any of my classmates in all of my subjects. Just because I said that they aren't taught until our fifth or sixth year doesn't mean that I haven't already mastered them," Tom couldn't help but brag, needing the older boy to see that he wasn't just some fourth-year imbecile that couldn't keep up with him.

Harry bit his cheek to keep from grinning foolishly at the adorable boy that was trying to impress him. "Does the Patronus Charm make the list of your accomplishments?" Harry asked, stopping to lean against the wall. Once they rounded the corner they would arrive at their destination and Harry didn't fancy being stuck talking to one of Tom's lackeys, especially not Abraxas Malfoy. Harry had to forcibly stop himself from shuddering at the thought.

Tom's self-assured smile dimmed at Harry's question, but he didn't look away from his challenging emerald eyes.

"No, but that's hardly something to be ashamed of. Most grown wizards aren't able to produce a corporeal Patronus," he argued, defensively crossing his arms over his chest.

"Now wait a moment. I never said anything about feeling ashamed. There is no shame in not being able to do something—anything. All I'm offering is my help, if you want it, feel free to take it," he told the cross looking boy that looked about ready to hex him.

"Of course, _you_ can produce a corporeal Patronus," Tom mumbled enviously under his breath.

He would pay a pretty penny for someone to find something the man wasn't good at. "I have this nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach telling me that I don't want to know how old you were when you first managed to produce one," he grumbled, but for some reason found himself unable to stay upset with the man and gave him a hesitant smile.

"Follow that gut feeling, Riddle. It will take you places," he joked with a huge smile on his face.

Harry couldn't believe it! This was all turning out better than he expected. They were actually joking around. Joking around! And teasing each other!

Merlin, how much he'd missed Tom.

"I'll take it then; your help, that is," he clarified when Harry gave him a confused look. Harry's face instantly lit up, and Tom thought that there was no way such an expression could be faked.

Butterflies started fluttering in his chest, and the longer he looked at the beautiful dark-haired man, the larger the butterflies grew.

Before they could exchange any more words Peverell's eyes wandered over his shoulder and suddenly grew large and dismayed.

"Abraxas," he breathed in a horrified whisper.

"Excuse me?" Tom asked, not sure he'd hear right, but then he heard Malfoy call his name from a short distance away. "I take it you're not very friendly with our resident Malfoy," Tom chuckled, more relieved than he cared to admit to seeing that Peverell wasn't in the least bit interested in Malfoy.

"He's an alright bloke, you know… when you're not his current love interest," he whispered before straightening out with a friendly smile forced onto his face. Now that Tom had something to compare to that smile, he could easily see how forced it was. Nothing at all like the beaming smile he had not two minutes before.

"Malfoy, a pleasure to see you this evening," Peverell greeted charmingly, gaining himself a small, inconspicuous glare from Tom.

'Well, if one doesn't want to be found attractive, they shouldn't act so damned charming,' thought Tom.

"The pleasure is all mine, Peverell," 'Braxas smirked in what he probably thought was a seductive and appealing way. Tom thought that he failed terribly, and looking at Harry's pinched face, he'd have to say that the man agreed with him. "Evening, Tom," Malfoy nodded vaguely in his direction, barely acknowledging him and never taking his eyes off Peverell.

After a moment of awkward silence, Harry decided that it was time to extract himself from the situation.

"Right then, gentlemen," Harry said, pushing himself off the wall. "I've got some roast pork and sweet potatoes calling my name. Same time next week, Riddle?" he asked as he straightened out the strap of his bag.

"Tom. Call me Tom," he repeated shyly when Peverell turned around to give him an infectious grin. "We're friends now, are we not?" he asked, almost hesitantly.

"Sure we're friends," Harry smiled. "You call me Hadrian then," he insisted. "See you later, _Tom_ ," he smirked, sending him a mischievous wink. Tom almost sighed at the way his deep velvety voice sounded his name. "Malfoy," he said in parting, before turning the corner and moving out of sight.

"I thought you didn't need friends, Tom," Malfoy said to him, sounding perplexed and jealous all at the same time. If he was jealous of him or Peverell, Tom wasn't entirely sure.

"I don't, but I am willing to make an exception for Peverell," he admitted, mostly to see what Abraxas would say.

He wasn't disappointed. Abraxas opened and closed his mouth several times, his face growing more red each time he repeated the action. It was very comical, Tom thought. At least it would be if he were able to draw amusement from such matters.

"Does that-" he started but thought to reword his question. "Do you want..." he struggled again, finally drawing out the last bit of Tom's patience.

"Will you just spit it out already, 'Braxas?" he snapped, having grown more than irritated with him.

"Do you fancy Peverell?" he practically spat before he could stop himself.

Tom sneered at his lack of restraint but decided that this was the best opportunity to shut down Malfoy's advances on Peverell. "Not that it would be any of your business, but no, I don't currently have an interest in _Hadrian_ beyond friendship. But I wouldn't be entirely opposed to the idea if such an opportunity were to present itself," he said, before making his own way towards the great hall.

Roast pork and sweet potatoes did sound very good. It didn't matter that he didn't usually like sweet potatoes, he was sure that some gravy would solve the small issue nicely.

* * *

Harry was lounging in his usual spot on top of the roof of the Astronomy tower, unable to tear the stupid grin from his face. Even Dumbledore had commented on his unusually upbeat mood during their meeting that evening.

"Today turned out to be quite productive," came Death's neutral voice from next to him, scaring him seven ways into the next century.

Well, maybe not quite, but he _had_ startled him.

"I really need to put a fucking bell on you," he growled, his good mood instantly diminishing.

"Don't act like such a pussy, Potter."

"It's Peverell, now," Harry reminded him. It was better not to mix these things around too much.

"To me, you'll never stop being that lost little shit that couldn't figure out why he'd stopped aging," Death shrugged, sitting down in the open space next to Harry.

"Need I remind you that you took your sweet time introducing yourself to me?" Harry smirked, enjoying this little trip down memory lane. "How was I supposed to know that simply using all three objects in the same evening would automatically make me immortal?"

Those were the simple days. Back when had just defeated the Darkest wizard of all time and thought that he finally had a chance at a normal life.

Life had been going really well. He was married, thinking about having children and building a future. The only worry he had back then was the fact that he didn't look a day over seventeen. He'd convinced himself that it was nothing, wizards aged differently, right? Completely disregarding the fact that everyone around him seemed to be ageing normally.

He'd been very wrong indeed.

But he only realised that when Death came swooping into his life. Harry was not ashamed to admit that he fainted when Death visited him for the first time.

"Five years, if memory serves," Death commented lightly.

"Five years," Harry agreed.

Yes, Death had allowed him five years of peace before letting him know that life would never be the same for him again.

And it wasn't. His wife and friends grew older while he stayed the same, growing only more powerful with each passing year.

He had left Ginny when he was twenty-six years old, allowing her to find someone she could grow old with. At that point in his life, it had been the hardest thing he'd ever had to do, but he had done it.

He had watched his friends have families, live their lives, and grow old. He had gone to each one of their funerals with tears streaming down his cheeks, until the last one.

His Teddy's funeral was the last he could take before he and Death started wandering through different time periods, educating himself in whatever branch of magic caught his fancy. He had even dabbled in various different trades, ever expanding his set of skills.

Over the centuries there was no subject he'd left untouched, and it would seem as if the world had nothing new to offer him, yet funnily enough, each day he seemed to be learning something new anyway.

"All joking aside, it did seem like a most productive day," Death repeated, and Harry knew that he was smiling softly under that dark hood of his. That big old teddy bear.

"It was," he nodded, leaning back and stretching his hands under his head so that he could comfortably look up at the stars. "Orion is a surprisingly good researcher, you know, for being a total spaz. It also seems like I'm finally getting through to Dumbledore."

"Yes, and last, but not least important; Tom Riddle is absolutely smitten with Hadrian Peverell," Death teased, bumping his knee into Harry's.

"Shuddup," he mumbled, blushing, but couldn't help but smile goofily up at the stars. "He is, isn't he?" he asked him, glancing at him bashfully from the side of his eye.

Death snorted and rolled his eyes.

"He was different. I don't know how to explain it," Harry told him dreamily.

"Three years do make a difference, Harry. And remember that you've never met a Tom that hadn't already made a Horcrux," Death pointed out.

And this time around Tom wouldn't get to make his first one, not if Harry had anything to say about it.

Immortality was a gift that he would gladly give him. Alchemy was one of his best subjects, not that there were any subjects that he was particularly bad at. Immortality was something he could give him, but only if Tom chose the right path for himself.

"If this all goes south I'm still blaming you," Harry warned him.

"What happened to the positive little boy that I took under my wing?"

"He spent way too much time with you," Harry deadpanned before turning around to grin at his friend.

* * *

It was about two in the morning when Harry made his way back to the dungeons. "Boomslang," he said through a yawn, tiredly stretching his hands over his head.

The portrait hole opened for him and he quickly made his way in, enjoying the immediate change in temperature he felt. He was going to head straight to his dorm room when he noticed that there was a figure hunched over on the plush black loveseat next to the fireplace, furiously scribbling away on a roll of parchment.

It didn't take him long to realise that it was Tom sitting there, his beautiful face being lit up by the warm light of the fireplace.

"Riddle?" he called out gently as to not startle him. Tom looked up at him with tired and blurred eyes, cutely rubbing away the sleep from his eyes. "What are you doing up at this late hour?" he asked him, moving closer.

"Peverell? I could ask you the same thing. And didn't we already agree that it's Tom?" he asked him with a small, tired smirk.

"We did," he agreed. "And I'm awake because I'm a bit of an insomniac. Wandering around the castle halls at night helps me clear my mind enough to fall asleep for a few hours," he admitted. "Do you mind?" he asked gesturing towards the empty place next to him.

Tom shook his head. "Not at all," he said, shuffling to the side to make some more space for him.

"Cheers, Tom," he said before lowering himself to the loveseat. "So, what are you doing up?" he asked again, giving the parchment in Tom's hands a curious look.

"I was working on my DADA essay, but it's almost done. I've just got to finish it up," he said, dipping his quill into the ink bottle that was resting on top of the coffee table.

"I'm beginning to see that you don't mess about when it comes to your education, do you, Tom?" he chuckled amusedly.

Tom threw him a look that let him know how stupid he thought that question was, before lowering his head back to his essay with a concentrated look on his face.

"Well, since I'm here I might as well have a look at it before you hand it in tomorrow," Harry offered.

"In a minute," he told him distractedly, and Harry just allowed himself to watch the younger boy as he worked.

True enough, one minute later Tom put his quill down and started looking over his finished work, looking pleased with the end result. "Here," he said, handing him the still drying parchment.

Harry took the offered essay and carefully read over each elegantly written word. He couldn't help but feel astonished at the way the fourteen-year-old was able to articulate himself. He was also surprised that he had actually bothered to use the notes he had made for him earlier. Tidbits of information he had offered him, voluntarily twined with Tom's own words. For some reason that had his throat drying and his chest constricting.

He cleared his throat and gave him an impressed tilt of the head. "If Professor Merrythought doesn't give you an O, I'll go file a complaint myself," he told him in a small show of praise.

"Thanks, again, for helping me," Tom told him, for once not finding it hard to say the words and actually mean them.

"Don't mention it, kid," Harry waved off only to recoil at the venomous glare Tom send his way.

"Is that really what you see me as? Some little kid?" Tom asked him before he could stop the words from spilling from his mouth.

"I'm sorry," Harry rushed to apologise, stretching out both of his open palms in a show of peace. "I should have known that you would find such a term of endearment derogatory."

"So you do see me as a kid," Tom mumbled, closing off his expression.

"Tom, there is absolutely nothing wrong with being a kid. You're fourteen! You have your whole life ahead of you. Enjoy your last few years of adolescence, because you'll have more than plenty of time to be an adult," he promised, trying to rectify the damage he had done with one obtuse comment.

"What if I don't? What if I don't have my whole life ahead of me? You said it yourself, the bombs the muggles are using in their war are horrible. Being a parentless child means that I'm stuck in that awful muggle orphanage right in the middle of the war zone. What if next summer I don't make it out? Or the summer after that? What if right now is all I have?" he asked him, desperate for answers he knew that Hadrian couldn't give him.

'Merlin, he must be really tired if he's sharing this with me,' thought Harry wearily.

"Would you believe me if I said I know otherwise?" Harry asked him quietly, not looking away from those frightened grey eyes. Wanting desperately to reach out and comfort him, but he couldn't. Not yet.

Tom frowned at his question, searching his bright green eyes for any sign of deceit, but found none.

"Are you a seer?" he asked him, clearly wary of his own theory.

Hadrian chuckled and shook his head.

"Then how would you know something like that if you can't predict the future?" Tom challenged.

"Magic," he told him simply with a wicked smirk, drawing a small smile out of Tom.

"That hardly explains anything at all,"

"Or maybe it explains everything," Harry countered with a shrug. "I promise that one day you'll know what I'm talking about, but for now you're just going to have to take my word for it."

"Take your word for it?" Tom repeated incredulously.

"Yes, you know. Trust me," Harry said cheekily.

Tom sighed and rolled his eyes. "You're really something else, Peverell."

"Hadrian," he corrected. "We're friends now, remember?" he teased.

"As a friend, can I ask you something, Hadrian?" he asked, testing how the name sounded on his lips. He had to admit that it sent a very pleasant and warm feeling through him.

When Hadrian nodded his consent, he bit the corner of his lips, wondering if maybe he should have left well enough alone, but decided to brave the question that had been plaguing him since the last Saturday.

"Why didn't you like me when we first met?"

"Excuse me?" Harry squeaked a pitch too high, taken aback by this turn in questioning.

"I got the impression that you felt uncomfortable in my company," Tom explained, not beating around the bush.

Harry blinked at him, completely at a loss at what to tell him. He hadn't realised that he had failed so miserably at concealing what he felt. He'd been aiming for mild indifference, not dislike.

"You reminded me of someone I knew a long time ago," he found himself admitting, and that was the truth. This Tom standing in front of him was two Horcruxes away from his Tom. They weren't the same person.

"Oh?" Tom asked him surprised, not expecting that answer.

"Yes," Harry replied giving him a weary smile. "In some ways, you two are exactly the same, and at the same time completely different."

"He hurt you." It wasn't a question. Tom could easily see it in the way his beautiful eyes had dimmed. It was as if a bright star had been extinguished, leaving them to drown in darkness. He hadn't realised how drawn he was to that light until it was gone.

"He did," choked Harry. "But where he is he won't ever hurt me again," he reassured him, trying to muster the best smile he could while faced with the image of his nightmares.

Tom's features were too soft, gentle in a way that he had never seen before. It was too much for him and he had to look away.

Tom wanted to ask him more about this person. Wanted to find out his location and destroy him with his bare hands. This sudden surge of protectiveness took him by surprise, but he was too far gone to question it.

He opened his mouth to ask his questions, but one look at Hadrian's stoic face made him change his mind. Another time. There would be time for such questions.

"I think I'm going to head up and have a little kip," Harry said, rubbing his knees before getting up. "Goodnight, Tom," he waved.

"Night, Hadrian," he called after his retreating back, slumping back into the loveseat.

There was only one thing Tom knew for sure, and that was that Hadrian Peverell was going to turn his whole world around.

Yes, he felt a healthy amount of anxiety towards the oncoming change, yet he couldn't find it in himself to do anything about it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

 **November 20th, 1941**

Harry hadn't always loved Tom, despite what a certain celestial being might suggest to the contrary. There had indeed been a time when all he felt for Tom Riddle was a well-deserved amount of hatred and contempt, completely devoid of any warm, illogical feelings, besides, perhaps, an almost minuscule yet still uncomfortable prick of pity.

Things had been simple then, when he'd hated Tom and had been able to unflinchingly plot his demise. Because that had been Harry's ultimate objective when he'd travelled to 1944 over four centuries ago-dispose of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Harry hadn't done it out of any sense of righteousness as he might have first led himself to believe. Had his intentions really been so noble, he'd have simply removed Merope from the equation and spared Tom Sr all the months of rape and years of trauma he'd had to endure.

No, the spontaneous trip through time had been prompted by the fact that he'd been feeling hollow and so inexplicably bored with _everything_.

He'd been going through an existential crisis of sorts for quite a few years. He'd even given up the magical world for a while there and met a young muggle man he fancied himself in love with.

 _Merlin_ , he'd been a right fool.

It's almost unnecessary to mention that the relationship hadn't lasted very long. The man died, as all living things besides himself tended to do, and he'd felt _nothing_.

But that wasn't quite true, because Harry had felt relief—sweet relief at the knowledge that he could finally drop the charade.

And wasn't he just the cruellest of monsters?

He'd felt no grief over the death of the man he'd spent the previous couple of years pretending to love, and he couldn't even muster any sincere amount of guilt regarding his lack of… lamentation. The truth had left him thoroughly shaken and feeling more lost than ever before.

He hadn't mentioned any of this to Death, of course. Harry couldn't possibly give him the satisfaction of knowing that he'd been right all along. The gloating that would have followed would have been unbearable.

Once Harry had accepted the situation for what it was, he'd been desperate, so utterly desperate to feel something _—anything at all._

He'd wanted out of the monotony he was trapped in—out of the cage he'd foolishly lured himself into.

Then, the solution to his plight had come to him in the form of a stray image in his head—the disfigured visage of Lord Voldemort. It had truly sprung onto him out of nowhere, as he hadn't spared the monster a single thought in some decades. But in hindsight, it was obvious that his subconscious would feed him that _specific_ image when he'd been so dolorous and filled to the brim with the need to _feel_.

The hatred he'd felt for the snake-faced beast that had tormented him throughout his early youth had remained unmatched, even after all those years. None had ever come close to making his blood boil in the same way the Dark Lord had.

He'd never been proud of it, but even after he vanquished Lord Voldemort, he hadn't been able to quench his loathing and need for vengeance. He'd always thought that once Voldemort was dead, he'd be free, but instead, he felt unsatisfied and filled with unresolved rage.

His loathing for the man was so powerful and violent that, if left unchecked, outmeasured any and all other emotions he's ever felt. Yes, feeling _hatred_ was much better than the senseless cycle of numbness he'd found himself stuck in. And so the game had begun, and off in search of Tom Marvolo Riddle he went.

Not that, at the time, he'd allowed himself to realise his true intentions. Back then, this unwavering truth had been masked under a heavy layer of denial.

True intentions aside, what Harry had failed to take into account was the fact that he'd actually have it in himself to feel _attracted_ towards the heinous monster.

Harry had forgotten just how _twisted_ he'd become. Forgotten that he was aeons old and a jaded, immortal soul removed from the Gryffindor Golden Boy he once was. Forgotten that the face he donned and the memories he carried with him were all that remained of that boy.

Sure, when the seed had first been planted in the form of a wicked dream, he'd fought against it and retreated into himself, hiding like a coward behind his mental shields. It had taken him a while to break through the numbness and denial, but when he did, he'd welcomed the wrongness that washed over him with open arms.

It had been such a profane concept, bedding the murderer of his parents—bedding the man he'd once murdered himself. So wrong, wrong, _wrong_. But, oh _Merlin_ , the way his body had responded to the dream... He hadn't been able to remember the last time he'd felt so aroused.

' _Sweet Mordred and Morgana, save my soul_ ', he thought when the delicious shame had seared through him, leaving him breathless and craving for _more_. It had been even more exhilarating than the anger and hatred he'd felt towards Voldemort, and for the first time in decades, Harry had felt truly alive.

 _It was around the second week of October, six weeks into the new school term, that found Harry Stevenson standing in the empty clearing where he'd once sat with Sirius Black after the whole ordeal in the Shrieking Shack._

 _The whomping willow was years away from being planted, but when Harry wasn't lost in his own mind, he could vividly picture its thick branches and strong roots. Could almost feel the rough bark under his touch._

 _He stood with his back to the castle, his emerald eyes bright amidst the absolute darkness of the night—watchful but unseeing. Thick rain was pelting down heavily around him, but he just stood still, allowing the rain to soak through all of his clothes. He didn't feel cold, didn't even notice his soaked clothes or the frosty wind that was billowing around him. He felt numb to the world, his mind swallowed by a never-ending dark tunnel._

 _He had no motivation to leave the soothing darkness, didn't wish to escape its secure confines because it was simple here behind his defences. No feelings, no thoughts, and no was only protective darkness keeping away all his unwanted demons._

 _Lightning struck not far from where he stood, for a brief moment flashing light upon his surroundings, but his open emerald eyes were left unseeing. Seconds later thunder roared loudly as if vying for his attention, but he didn't even flinch, or register the ringing in his ears._

 _He was still in the tunnel, feeling unafraid and unconcerned with his whereabouts. He was contentedly standing amidst the darkness when the faintest of whispers reached his ears. At first, it was unintelligible and easy to ignore, but as the whispering kept on persisting it began to grow louder._

" _Harry," it said, but he walked away from the intrusion, deeper into the tunnel, trying to escape the incessant whispering breaking his peace. But it didn't matter how far he walked, the whispering followed him until it grew too loud to ignore._

" _Harry!" the voice boomed one last time with such ferocity that it shattered the tunnel walls around him. Then Harry felt a presence behind him, felt it tug him out of the depths of his mind, and suddenly he was left standing in the empty clearing where nothing was simple anymore._

" _It took you long enough," Death seethed next to him, but Harry didn't notice, too lost in the onslaught of horrifying images and thoughts he'd been trying to escape from._

" _Do you know how long I've been trying to break through your defences?" Death asked him, voice tight, alight with worry and fury. "What were you thinking? Were you purposefully trying to get lost in there?" Honestly, the man never learned!_

 _Harry just looked at him blankly and simply stood there, unresponsive._

 _Death invaded Harry's personal space, his intimidating form almost pressed up against him and stared him down, but his friend's striking eyes remained detached._

" _Damn it, Harry," he bit out. "Would you be so kind and snap out of whatever the fuck this is long enough to explain to me what the hell happened?" Death demanded, inches away from Harry's face._

 _When Harry remained unresponsive Death's worry grew, and if there was one thing he absolutely abhorred it was the pesky constricting feeling in his chest that the worry brought along with it. Unfortunately, since his acquaintanceship with Harry started, worry had been a steady companion of his; along with exasperation, exhaustion, and fury._

 _Sighing, Death tilted his hooded head to the side and started seriously debating with himself whether a punch to the face would jar Harry out of whatever stupor he was in. As he was about to come to a decision, Harry finally cocked his head back and faced Death with a vacant expression fixed on his face, his eyes all but dead._

 _For a few moments, Harry stared at him with those lifeless eyes of his saying nothing at all, and if Death hadn't known any better he would have thought that his soul had vacated his body. But he did know better and the alternative didn't look very pleasing._

 _Death noticed Harry's lips twitch as if he were trying to suppress a grin, then he pressed them tightly together into a thin line. His dead eyes became alive, gaining a crazed glint to them that sent a foreboding shiver down Death's spine. In that split second he knew that something had changed… something irreversible._

 _He watched as Harry's chest heaved with a few shuddering breaths and then his face twisted in a way that he wasn't sure meant that Harry was trying to contain his laughter, or trying not to spill the contents of his stomach, so he took a few cautious steps back just in case it was the latter._

 _Needless to say, Death was beyond confused at this intense display of uncontrolled human emotion. He assumed that Harry might be going through what the mortals liked to label as a 'mental breakdown' and he wasn't quite sure how to help his friend with his newly acquired mental affliction._

 _His attention was drawn back to Harry when some cackles managed to pass through his tightly pressed lips, which were then quickly followed by a long, pained, whine that would have broken a demon's heart. Then, to Death's complete horror, Harry's shoulders started shaking! He thought that he'd been about to start sobbing, that is, until he heard Harry burst into loud, insane, mirthless laughter._

 _Death stared at his friend, completely bewildered, then took another two instinctive steps away from him._

 _Harry was clutching his sides, his back hunched over and gasping for breath, unable to control his mad laughter. Death couldn't be sure, what with the heavy rain, but he thought he saw tears running down Harry's cheeks before being washed away by the deluge._

" _M-Morgana, I've lost m-my mind," Harry managed to gasp out through bouts of cackles, sounding entirely too pleased with that conclusion. Not that Death could say he disagreed, especially not when his friend was still shaking with uncontrollable mirth and sobs._

 _Suddenly, Harry straightened his back and tried to shake his head clear. "You will never-" he tried to say before he broke off snickering again, the kind of snickering that sent a shiver of ice-cold dread through Death._

 _Death raised a brow behind his hood and waited patiently while Harry attempted to compose himself. Hopefully, it would happen before he started growing roots._

 _Harry closed his eyes and pushed his wet hair away from his face, finally noticing the storm he was standing in. He cleared his throat before he exhaustedly dropped to the muddy ground with his elbows resting on his bent knees, and his face shamefully buried in his hands._

" _Merlin," he croaked, inhaling a deep breath of much-needed air. "I think I've lost my mind," he announced once again, in time with another dramatic strike of lightning._

 _Death waited for the ear-splitting roar of thunder to pass before repeating his earlier question, only in a more gentle manner this time._

" _What happened, Harry?"_

 _Harry sighed despondently and tilted his head back, allowing the rain to hit his face. His eyes were searching for the stars which always managed to ground him. But there were no stars in the sky that night, only clouds and rain._

" _I had a dream," he confessed. "Nightmare, really," he amended with a self-deprecating sneer._

 _When Harry didn't seem like he was going to elaborate any further, Death was quick to press, "Do you want to tell me what it was about?" he asked cautiously, afraid that he would burst out in another bout of craziness._

" _Not really," Harry admitted, his lips twisting into a humourless smirk. "We need to find me a good mind healer, yeah? First thing in the morning I'm going to go get permission from Slughorn to make a quick trip to St. Mungo's, because I'm telling you, Death, there is something seriously wrong with me," he insisted, his green eyes wild and desperate._

 _A mind healer wasn't the only healer he'd be needing if he stayed out in the cold and rain for much longer. Death was about to say as much, but Harry decided that he wasn't quite done talking yet._

" _I mean, it's sick. No way around it. I'm fucking sick," he spat. "Why the fuck else would I dream about…?" he trailed off questioningly, sounding unbelievably confused and lost._

 _Death truly didn't want to press his friend if he didn't want to talk about it, but a half-assed explanation like that wasn't exactly enlightening or comforting and aroused his curiosity to an almost unbearable measure. He was tempted to reach through their mental link, but he'd learned his lesson about privacy a long time ago. He shuddered at the unpleasant memory and shook his head. No, trying to read his friend's mind was a very bad idea._

" _I've managed to betray the memory of everyone I've ever loved," Harry moaned guiltily, putting his head in his hands again. This quickly caught Death's attention. What on earth had the boy done this time?_

" _Why? Why the bloody fuck would I dream about…." he trailed off miserably._

 _Death was not losing his patience. He really wasn't. His right eye was twitching because of other, unrelated, reasons._

" _Why would I dream about shagging Riddle?" Harry finally managed to choke out, his complexion turning a sickly shade of green as he did so._

 _Death blinked, not quite sure that he'd heard him correctly—hoping that he hadn't—but one look at Harry's green eyes swimming in disgust and self-loathing washed away any doubts he could try to delude himself with._

 _Okay. That… It was… unexpected, he allowed himself to think, not wanting to dwell on the numerous other words he could use to describe such an…_ _unexpected situation._

 _To say that Death was stumped speechless would be the understatement of the millennia, and to be honest, he didn't think there were any words in existence that would be able to offer Harry any comfort._

" _I know, right?" Harry chuckled. "Merlin, coming here was a mistake. I should never have tried to change shit. If- Fuck!" he screamed before throwing himself back onto the cold, muddy ground, limbs spread-eagle._

 _Death wasn't sure what Harry was trying to accomplish. Did he think he would get hypothermia and die? He should know better, he couldn't die._

 _Well, it wasn't as if Harry was exactly thinking clearly, not that Death blamed him. A mind healer didn't sound like a bad idea. You know, just to be sure._

 _Death opened his mouth to say something—anything, but Harry cut him off before he could voice the first syllable._

" _Don't. There is absolutely nothing you can say to me right now," he growled, unknowingly echoing Death's earlier thoughts. "This situation is horrible enough without your smart-ass quips and sarcasm."_

 _Death glared indignantly. He wasn't that insensitive!_

" _I should head back to the castle. I don't fancy seeing what happens when I'm struck by lightning," Harry murmured. He got to his feet and frowned down at his mud-caked robes. With a flick of his wrist, his clothes were once again clean and dry, impervious to the storm. He pulled up the hood of his robes and started making his way back to the castle._

" _Don't follow me," he warned Death with his back turned._

" _Insolent brat," Death grumbled under his breath. "See if I try pulling you out of that stupid tunnel the next time you decide to take your conscience on a walkabout."_

 _Harry ignored him and kept at his leisurely pace back to the castle, allowing the cold wind to clear his mind. Nothing was as sobering as the cutting winds of winter._

 _So what if he had an erotic dream featuring Riddle in it? A dream was still just that, a dream. There was no deeper meaning behind it. Seventeen-year-old Riddle was very attractive. Harry would have to be positively blind not to notice. He'd known that about Riddle before he came here. He'd known that he was beautiful, impossibly and unfairly so, but that did not mean his angelic face didn't hide a demon beneath it._

 _It was only a dream, he tried to comfort himself again, and again, forcing himself deeper into denial._

 _Only a dream. No cause for panic, only some good therapy._

 _Harry was walking on auto-pilot as his thoughts ran rampant in his mind. He hadn't even noticed that he'd entered the shelter and warmth of the castle walls. Had he noticed, he might have tried to sneak around better._

" _Would you like to explain what you're doing out at this hour, Stevenson?" The voice immediately stopped Harry in his tracks and made his eyes widen in horror at his devastatingly bad luck. "I know it's you, Stevenson. Might as well drop the hood and face me," Riddle challenged._

 _For a moment, Harry debated on running. Riddle wouldn't run after him, just inform Slughorn and give him a few extra detentions. But then he would seem like a coward, and that was simply unacceptable._

" _Just out for a midnight stroll, Riddle," he said as he turned around and pushed back the hood, thankfully sounding much more confident and aloof than he actually felt._

" _It's past three in the morning, Stevenson," Riddle corrected him oh-so-kindly._

 _So literal, Harry thought with a scoff, but then his eyebrows raised curiously. Patrolling didn't go until this late, not even for the Head Boy._

" _That just means you can't give me detention, Riddle. Not without letting Slughorn know about your own rule-breaking," Harry smirked triumphantly before turning around to continue on his merry way, thinking that the crisis had been averted. There was no need for any further contact with Riddle, that is until he heard his graceful footsteps following him._

 _Why was Riddle following him?_

 _As if he'd read his thoughts, Riddle explained, "Head Boy quarters are in the same direction, Stevenson."_

 _Right. That luck of his again. Dodge a bullet just to be faced with Fiendfyre kind of luck._

 _The silence between them was tense, and after the events of that night, Riddle's proximity was unsettling and unwelcome. But what could he do short of apparating into his dorm room? Now that wouldn't arouse any unwanted questions at all._

 _Harry had been content to bear the distance back to their respective dorms in silence, but Riddle had other plans, it seemed._

" _What is it about me that you find so insulting, Stevenson?"_

 _The question caught Harry by surprise and almost made him stumble in his steps, but he managed to regain his balance just in time not to make a fool of himself._

" _I don't know what you're talking about, Riddle," he shrugged._

 _Tom rolled his eyes and tutted reprovingly. "It's rather obvious, what with the way your lips always twist into a frown at the sight of me. Not to mention the way your eyes burn with judgment for just a moment before they dull back into a forced indifference."_

 _The accusing tone he used didn't go unnoticed by Harry, nor did it manage to hide Riddle's genuine curiosity and frustration._

" _I think you've been reading too much into all of this. Just because I don't mindlessly bow to your supposed greatness doesn't mean that I find anything about you 'insulting', as you've put it."_

 _To Harry's surprise, Tom's didn't descend into a fit of madness for daring to question his greatness. Instead, he kept on smirking, grey eyes glinting with amusement._

" _You hide it very well, I'll allow you that. But what you fail to notice is that when I'm in your line of sight your whole demeanour changes, Stevenson. The meek act you've so carefully constructed crumbles helplessly around you. Your slightly hunched shoulders straighten, your back arches defiantly, and your chin juts out proudly. And in place of the meek little mudblood you've been trying so hard to portray stands a beautiful warrior."_

 _At those last two complimenting words Harry stopped walking, not quite believing his ears._

 _Was Riddle- was he coming on to him? He couldn't possibly._

 _Unfortunately, that moment of confounded daze gave Riddle the opportunity to further invade his personal space._

" _Are you going to lie to me again, or will you tell the truth?" Tom breathed, inches away from Harry's face._

' _Are you going to lie to me again, or will you tell the truth?' Those words… those exact words would be whispered to him again in much the same manner, but by a different man, in a different time._

 _The scene morphed, and Harry was no longer standing in the middle of the cold dungeon corridors. Instead, he found himself in the Gryffindor dorm room surrounded by red and gold, roughly backed into the door by none other than Sirius Black._

" _Sirius," he sighed irritatedly, but allowed the shorter boy to pin his hands above his head._

" _Well? What's it going to be, Harry?" he pressed as he teasingly ground their hips together in a way he knew drove his lover mad._

 _Seeing the honey trap for what it was, Harry bit back a moan and stopped himself from grinding back into Sirius._

" _I don't understand why you have to keep pressing the issue, Black," he hissed through clenched teeth. "I thought we agreed that this wasn't up for discussion."_

" _Don't be cross, darlin'," Sirius pleaded softly, dropping a featherlight kiss onto his neck. "But you know perfectly well that I only agreed to drop it for the time being. I've been an amazingly attentive, understanding, and supportive boyfriend-"_

" _There's no need to be so modest, love," Harry interrupted with an incredulous scoff._

 _Sirius rolled his eyes at Harry's transparent attempt at changing the subject and ignored the comment._

" _I think that I've been very patient with you, Harry. I've allowed you your secrets for a very long time now," he whispered into his ear, sending a delicate shiver down Harry's spine. "But by now we've shagged often enough to earn me the right to some answers," Sirius teased lightly before gently nibbling on Harry's earlobe. "And until I get my answers I'll be keeping my talented mouth and hands to myself."_

 _And with that, Sirius dropped Harry's wrists and stepped away from him, giving him time to process the ultimatum he'd hidden behind his crass and teasing words._

 _Harry ran a hand through his hair and sighed._

" _You don't play fair, Black," he murmured gingerly._

" _Never said I did, darlin'," he joked, shooting Harry one of his beautiful mischievous smiles, but Harry wasn't fooled. Carefully concealed behind the smile and playfulness laid a deep hurt which stemmed from Harry's lack of trust in him._

 _Harry had known that this moment would come—had anticipated and dreaded it—but had also foolishly held out hope that things would remain uncomplicated between them. But as fate would have it, the circumstances weren't so, and Sirius was finally making him choose._

 _Trust him with his secrets, or lose him entirely._

 _There was no more room between them for any more lies or half-truths._

 _Suddenly, Sirius's smile faltered and twisted into a pained grimace as he internally battled with himself, but then his he pressed his soft lips into a decisive line, eyes shining resolutely with whatever silent decision he'd just come to._

" _I know that there isn't much I take seriously, but I am very serious about us, Harry," he said earnestly, stunning grey eyes begging Harry to believe him. "I- I need you to understand that I'm_ _ **not**_ _playing around," he added fervently. "Merlin, I- I-" he stuttered, releasing a strangled chuckle. He nervously licked his bottom lip and sighed, "I don't know how or when it happened since you kinda snuck up on me, but you're it for me now, Harry. I know that I haven't made my intentions towards you very clear, because I've got layers upon layers of fucked up insecurities and I completely suck at explaining and showing my feelings. But know that if you'll have me, I intend to spend the rest of my life with you." Sirius ended with a croaked whisper._

 _Harry's eyes widened at the admission and he sucked in a sharp, startled gasp, feeling completely astonished. Sirius had, in his own endearing way, just proclaimed his love and devotion towards him and it sent his heart racing uncontrollably in his chest._

 _For a moment he was struck speechless, feeling completely dazed as he tried to sort out his conflicting thoughts._

 _Harry loved Sirius. Merlin, he loved him so much, for so many years and in so many different ways. He represented so much for him; hope, strength, loss, grief, family, and a sense of belonging he'd never felt with anyone else besides Tom; and that was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? Thirty-three years later and he still wasn't over him, no matter how much he'd like to believe otherwise. His heart still undeniably belonged to Tom, but it had been Sirius that had miraculously been able to heal his festering misery and broken spirit. It had been with Sirius's help that he had finally begun feeling anything other than betrayal and heart-ache._

 _Allowing himself to get to know his parents and Sirius had been the best thing he had ever done for himself._

" _Sirius, I-" he started to say, but what could he possibly say? How could he word what he felt without hurting the young man who was responsible for his renewed ability to see colour and beauty in the world?_

 _Something in his eyes must have given away just how conflicted he felt because Sirius gave him a sad but reassuring smile._

" _I know you're still healing, Harry. That you're still not over Tom." Harry's eyes immediately narrowed at the name, filling with a cold fury that sent a shudder through Sirius._

" _How do you know that name?" Harry demanded through clenched teeth as he fought against the stinging agony and panic that threatened to overtake his senses._

 _Sirius steeled himself and gave him a small shrug. "You sometimes mumble his name in your sleep," he admitted sheepishly. At Harry's guilty expression he was quick to reassure him, "Mind, you don't do it very often, but whenever you do it's always followed by the most painful and heart-breaking whimper I've ever heard. It's obvious that he's caused you a lot of pain, and I'm not asking you to tell me about him. I don't need to know about your past romantic relationships. I just want you to know that I'm not this Tom fellow. I'd never do anything to hurt you or betray your trust, Harry, because you're the most precious and important person in my life, and whenever you're ready to open up to me about yourself, I'll be waiting for you."_

Harry shot up in his bed, head spinning in dazed disorientation as he heard Sirius's heartfelt words echoing in his ears. It took him a few moments to gather his bearings, not quite sure where or when he was. He hesitantly opened his eyes and took in his blurred surroundings, waiting patiently for his memory to come back to him.

'November 1941', and with that one thought all the other facts fell into place.

His name was Hadrian Peverell.

It was the 20th November, 1941.

He was on a mission to save Tom from himself and save the world from total annihilation.

Sirius was dead—had been dead for almost four centuries.

Harry sighed and dropped back onto his bed, feeling less rested than when he'd gone to sleep.

It had been a long time since he'd dreamt of Sirius, and he couldn't help the fresh sting of grief it brought him, reminding him of the life he'd long lost.

The Sirius that would be born in a few years would never know him that way—would never grow to love him unconditionally.

Harry would play the role of beloved uncle to him. He'd watch him grow and create a life without him. He'd no longer be the most precious and important person to Sirius.

He rationally knew that the path he'd chosen was for the best, realised that following this path meant that Sirius would never grow up in a hateful and malicious environment and that it gave him the opportunity to find someone who loved him as he deserved, but it didn't stop him from hurting and missing what was never going to be.

With those thoughts clinging to him like a filthy, skin-rooted odour, Harry buried his head in his pillows and tried unsuccessfully to banish the memories of all the people he'd ever loved and lost.

* * *

Harry was sitting at the Slytherin table, distractedly picking at his breakfast, not having much of an appetite after the restless night he's had, and feeling beyond glad that it was Saturday and thus he had no classes to attend to.

Stupid dreams. He didn't need his dreams to rehash old times with him. He remembered everything well enough on his own.

"Harry? You've not heard a word of what I just said, have you? Hello? Hadrian!"

Harry finally tuned into his surroundings when Orion started frantically waving his hand dangerously close to his face. Harry blinked himself back into the present and tilted his upper body away from the hazardous hand which had been close to poking out one of his eyes.

He threw Orion a bemused smile and gave him a small apologetic shrug. "Apologies, Orion. I'm feeling a bit out of it this morning," he said, throwing in his irresistible grin for good measure.

Orion rolled his eyes at his friend and sighed in that overly dramatic way of his that reminded him painfully of Sirius. "I was inviting you, on behalf of my father, to join us at the Black manor for Yule. The invitation extends towards the whole duration of our break. I'd suggest accepting the invitation, Harry. Mother's already prepared a room for you on father's behest. He would be mighty upset should you decide to stay at Hogwarts, and insulted should you take up any other offer," he warned him cheekily.

"I'll be there too," Alphard said from next to him but didn't look up from his breakfast. "Anything to get away from Walburga," he shuddered.

"I'll just pretend I didn't hear that, cousin," growled Orion from Harry's other side before he turned to face him once again. "So?" he asked expectantly. "Can I tell father you've accepted his most generous offer?"

"Yule with the Blacks? Sure," Harry agreed, trying his best not to glance down the table where he knew Tom was sitting, and trying not to think about how alone he'll be over the holidays.

Maybe next year they would be able to spend Yule together.

"Brilliant! That's settled then," Orion beamed, then dug back into his bacon and eggs with un-Pureblood-like gusto. It was a good thing that his sister wasn't around or he'd be receiving the scolding of the century.

Harry was about to reach for the last cinnamon roll when it was snatched from the plate by Fleamont who casually slid in beside Harry, pushing Orion to the side.

"Oy, that was my bun," growled Harry at the same time that Orion snapped, "Watch it, Potter."

"Lovely morning to you, too, Harry," Fleamont said in between mouthfuls of the delicious cinnamon roll he'd stolen, completely ignoring Orion.

"We spend enough time with you as it is, Potter. Must you sully our breakfast with your presence as well?" Alphard grumbled as he bit into his apple. Harry shot him a glare, but Alphard just shrugged. "He's the one stealing your cinnamon roll," he pointed out.

True, Harry thought, and turned his glare back onto Fleamont.

"It's Saturday. You owe me a rematch, remember?" Fleamont quickly redirected the conversation as he innocently continued munching away.

Oh, yeah. Harry had promised him a rematch the last Sunday when he'd won yet another game of seekers.

"I thought we were going to continue the chess game we started yesterday?" pouted Orion, sending him one of his puppy-eyed looks.

Yes, he'd promised that too, he thought and bit his lip.

"Would you be free tonight, Orion?" he asked him, hoping that it would put a stop the tantrum he was sure the younger Black was about to throw.

Orion narrowed his eyes at Fleamont but slowly started nodding his head in reluctant agreement. "That's fine, Harry. We'll play tonight," he waved off, then directed a mocking smirk towards the Gryffindor boy. "I don't know why you bother, Potter. Harry will beat you every single time you go up against him. He's the best flier that's ever been born!"

Had Harry forgotten to mention that Orion was his number one fan? Well, yeah, he really was.

Harry chuckled and reached around Monty to ruffle Orion's hair, drawing an annoyed scowl from the little Black.

"It's the Potter ego, Orion. He can't take the fact that someone's a better flier than him," he explained playfully as he sat up, giving his grandfather a friendly pat on the back.

"You're _not_ a better flier, Peverell!" Fleamont insisted, pushing himself up with an indignant huff.

"I see you've spent a lot of time in Egypt recently, haven't you?" Alphard said, joining in on the teasing jeers, which earned him a scathing glare from Fleamont.

Harry loved his friends. He really did.

"Let's go settle this, then, Potter," challenged Harry.

"Yes, let's," Fleamont agreed with a resolved nod. Poor lad didn't stand a chance, and didn't even know it.

* * *

It hadn't even been an official school match or anything of the sort, but all the Slytherins had been able to talk about all day was the trashing Potter received from Peverell in their small and friendly game of seekers. Well, it would be more accurate to say that the whole school was talking about it, but the Slytherins bragged relentlessly.

Earlier that morning at breakfast, Tom had seen Potter rudely invite himself over to the Slytherin table and help himself to the last cinnamon roll Hadrian had been about to reach for. A few minutes later, Potter whisked him away, and most of the school followed, seemingly having nothing better to do with their Saturday morning other than watching two boys repeatedly try to catch a small golden ball.

For some unfathomable reason, Tom had found himself amidst the crowd that had nothing better to do with their Saturday, gasping and cheering alongside them with each dive and turn Peverell made. His heart had stopped a beat or two when he'd watched him feign a dive, his broom mere inches away from the hard ground before he'd skillfully pulled up in time to avoid a life-threatening collision. Unable to control his relief, Tom had embarrassingly stumbled backwards while clutching a hand to his chest. He had the exciting match to thank for the fact that no one noticed his momentary slip in composure.

He'd never felt partial to quidditch or any sort of flying, finding it a complete waste of time. He thought that about any sport or game really, but watching Hadrian Peverell fly was nothing short of poetry.

Tom had always thought that Hadrian was graceful, envying the way he was able to move around almost silently. But Hadrian flying? It was honestly the finest art he'd ever witnessed.

So much talent. So perfect in every way. He'd have to be blind and a complete brainless fool not to want him, not to wonder what it would be like to take and be taken by such a powerful man.

At that moment, Tom was making his way back to the Slytherin common room, having just spent several unproductive hours in the library pouring over various books for any sign of his possible heritage, and once again failing to find anything useful.

His lack of progress was beyond agitating, and the lack of contact he's had with Hadrian over the past couple of days didn't do anything to improve his foul mood.

Salazar, there was something seriously wrong with him. There must be for him to act so irrationally. Hadrian had all but consumed his thoughts and it was such a maddening experience, yet he couldn't find it within himself to resent him for it, not really.

Had Tom not been so lost in thought, he might have been watching where he was going, and thus avoided the collision that sent him sprawling onto his back, only barely escaping what was sure to have been a severe concussion.

But he wasn't—watching where he was going, that is—and that's why Tom was currently groaning and rubbing his slowly bruising elbow.

A cutting insult was on the tip of his tongue, but it quickly died away when he heard the frantic and apologetic voice of Peverell.

"Tom? Fuck. I'm so sorry, Tom. I should've been watching where I was going. Here, let me help you up," he said and bent down to offer his hand.

Usually—had it been anyone else, really—Tom would have slapped away the offered hand before growling out some choice words. He might have even thrown in a hex or three, depending on his mood. Now? Now he just took the offered hand with a small, gentle smile on his face and apologised. Apologised!

"No, it's my fault. I was lost in thought and wasn't paying attention to my surroundings. My sincerest apologies, Hadrian." Morgana help him! He'd actually meant it.

Harry chuckled and grinned at him. "Let's just agree that we both need to be more careful," he said, then quickly dropped Tom's hand, belatedly realising that he was still holding onto it. Ignoring the small disappointed pang at the fact that he was no longer touching him, Tom tried and failed to control his blush under Hadrian's intense gaze and nodded his head dazedly.

He completely missed Hadrian's next words and blinked in confusion. "Pardon?" he said, trying to focus less on Hadrian's eyes and more on the words his soft-looking lips were forming.

"Is something the matter, Tom? Are you hurt?" he asked him, and Tom's heart swelled uncomfortably at the genuine concern he heard in his voice.

"No, not at all. I'm fine," he quickly reassured him, ignoring the painful throbbing he felt in his right elbow.

"Are you sure? Do you want me to escort you to the hospital wing?" he asked worriedly.

"Oh, no. That won't be necessary," Tom assured him, shaking his head.

"Alright, then," Harry smiled.

Tom averted his gaze and forcefully stopped himself from fidgeting nervously. "You weren't headed towards the dungeons, were you?" he asked before he could bite his tongue.

"No, I wasn't. I've actually been wandering around for a while trying to escape the congratulating crowd. Who would have thought that Slytherin house could be so supportive?" he said sardonically, and it was easy to understand what he was alluding to. Peverell hadn't forgotten about his encounter with Malfoy and Nott a month or so back, and Tom had seen both boys shake his hand earlier. It would seem that Hadrian didn't tolerate hypocrisy.

"Quidditch seems to send the best of men into a lunatic frenzy," Tom offered in mild defence of his sycophants.

"You don't like quidditch, do you?" Hadrian asked him, but it sounded more like a statement to Tom's ears.

"I don't necessarily dislike the sport. I simply find that I have better things to spend my time on," he told him diplomatically, not wanting to offend the man that quite clearly enjoyed the sport.

"And that's not a crime," Harry assured, noticing that the little guy looked a bit nervous about critiquing something that obviously meant a lot to him, which was rather astounding considering that his Tom wasn't capable of even that small amount of genuine consideration and empathy.

"Some people might state otherwise," grumbled Tom, thinking about the many arguments he'd had on the subject in his earlier years at Hogwarts.

"Mostly incompetent wannabees that live vicariously through witches and wizards that actually have the talent for flying," Harry shrugged, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Tom smirked at Harry's retort, appreciating the devil-may-care attitude that surfaced from time to time.

Peverell seemed so caring and understanding all the time, that sometimes it was hard for Tom to remember that he was the same person that beat Malfoy and Nott wandlessly after taking a Crucio to the chest. Beautiful, that was, truly, but still hard to connect with the man standing in front of him.

"Don't hold back, Peverell. Tell me what you really think about these-incompetent 'wannabees', was it? Not quite sure I've ever heard that term before, but I think that I get the gist of it."

Hadrian rubbed his neck and grinned impishly. "Picked up the slang in America," he fibbed quickly. "They've got this habit of butchering the queen's English."

"You've spent time in America?" Tom asked him curiously. It must have been nice to travel the world. Tom had never been anywhere but London and Hogwarts. Orphans didn't get to go on vacation. Not that anyone was going on vacation at the moment, what with the massive wars going on in both worlds.

"Some," Hadrian hummed, but wasn't forthcoming with any more information.

Not wanting their time together to end just yet, Tom, with his eyes averted shyly, timidly asked if Harry would like some company wherever it was he was heading to.

As soon as the words left his lips he wanted to hex himself for acting like a fool, but then Hadrian reached out and placed two fingers under his chin and tilted his face towards him, meeting his nervous gaze head-on.

The gentle touch took Tom by surprise, but the most disconcerting thing about it wasn't the inappropriate familiarity of the action, but the fact that he didn't mind the touch. It was widely known that Tom didn't like to be touched—no exceptions. But the delicate fingers lightly touching his chin did not send his stomach churning in disgust; instead, a different sensation gripped at his stomach. It was a burning clench that spread a tingling heat through his whole body.

"I was heading down to the kitchens. You're welcome to join me if you like," Hadrian offered, before abruptly snatching his fingers away from his chin and taking a small step away from him, leaving him cold.

"I'd love to. I missed dinner and I'm feeling rather peckish," Tom managed to say through his disappointment.

"You shouldn't be missing meals, Tom," Hadrian scolded and started pulling the boy along towards the kitchens.

The next hour was spent talking about their interests. It was an inconsequential conversation that served no other purpose than to get to know one another better. It wasn't something Tom usually engaged in or encouraged, but, as he'd begun to accept, Hadrian was the exception.

He didn't care what they spoke about, or if they spoke at all. Hadrian's presence alone was enough to warm his heart and immerse him in a state of contentedness.

They were now rounding the last corner that leads to the Slytherin dungeons, settling a heavy disappointment in Tom's chest, knowing that they would now be going their separate ways.

It was once again irrational of him. He shouldn't feel disappointed. He hadn't even planned to speak to him until their next tutoring session, but it seemed that logical thinking didn't stop irrational feelings. It was a learning experience he truly could have done without.

"Could I tempt you for a game of chess? I've just finished a game with Orion, but somehow I think you'll be a more worthy opponent. Just don't tell him that I said that," he added quickly, looking over his shoulder to make sure said boy wasn't anywhere within ear-shot.

Tom's ears went pink at the compliment, and he tried not to preen. "I'd like that," he agreed maybe a touch too enthusiastically.

He felt much too elated at the fact that Peverell has chosen to spend more time with him. It should terrify him, and he knew that he shouldn't allow this. Peverell was a weakness he couldn't allow himself the luxury to have. But in his presence, he lost all sense of self-preservation.

"Great!" Harian beamed, sounding very much like he meant it. "Should we make it interesting and involve a timer?"

Tom grinned his approval. He worked better under pressure anyway.

* * *

Death had been watching Harry and Tom from a short distance behind them, obscured from everyone, even Harry, and rolled his eyes. _Humans and their attachments_ , he huffed silently inside his mind. Did Harry really have to act so undignifyingly buoyant in Tom's company?

It irritated him. He knew that he had no right to feel this way, especially since he masterminded this whole situation—but he did.

Tom Riddle had always rubbed him the wrong way. The bastard had, after all, created seven Horcruxes just to avoid him, and those actions didn't exactly endear him to Death. Then he had gone and hurt his Harry, which had turned his mild dislike to pure disdain.

He had hoped that with enough time Harry would forget about him, but, to Death's utter surprise, it never came to pass.

Tom Riddle had managed to bury himself too deeply in Harry's heart. Not to say that Harry hadn't grown to be contented with his life, because surprisingly enough he had. Before the last war had peaked, Harry had reached a sense of tranquillity he'd never possessed before. But even so, Death had to admit that Harry had lost his fire—that exhausting passion for life that had always defined who he was.

The true reason Death had sent them back to this time—the reason he'd never dare confess to Harry—was that he wanted to offer Harry another chance with the one person he'd ever truly fallen in love with.

He hadn't thought that watching them together would bother him so much.

But Harry was happy, so Death would try and be happy for him. Maybe.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

 **November 25th, 1941**

 **Somewhere in an abandoned classroom,  
Hogwarts**

"Nothing's happening," Tom hissed through gritted teeth, nostrils flaring with the deep breaths it took for him to control his anger. He exhaustedly swept away the sweat from his forehead, feeling frustrated and bitter about having failed yet another attempt to cast the Patronus charm.

Thankfully though, Tom managed to retain enough self-control to stop himself from throwing his wand against the wall. After all, it wasn't as if he could afford to buy a new one—not that he'd ever want to part with his yew and phoenix feather wand even if he did have the money to spare.

Tom and Harry were currently occupying one of the abandoned classrooms close to the library, which was mostly bare apart from a couple of old looking desks and chairs that had conveniently already been pushed to the back of the room.

Harry was sitting cross-legged on top of the teacher's desk with his back hunched forward, left forearm resting casually against his knee, and his chin propped up on the heel of his right palm. He was facing Tom, who was standing in the middle of the room scowling at his wand as if was the prime reason for his failure—which it wasn't, of course. Poor wand.

Harry's lips were curved into a wary half-grin as he silently observed the young wizard gradually working himself into a frenzy and couldn't help but think that it was probably the most adorable he had ever seen Tom look.

"Nothing's happening," Tom repeated in a mangled, disbelieving whisper which Harry suspected wasn't meant for his ears.

Suddenly Tom seemed to remember his audience and swiftly turned to hide his infuriated expression from Hadrian. He clenched his jaw and ground his perfect white teeth in silent rage, desperately trying to control his juvenile reaction towards his own incompetence. But the anger and embarrassment he felt only continued to swell when he thought about what a right fool he was making of himself—in front of Hadrian, no less.

' _Not Hadrian,'_ he thought miserably.

A fresh surge of shame burned scorchingly through him, flushing his cheeks and clogging his throat.

' _Salazar, please let this not actually be happening to me,'_ Tom pleaded silently while he clamped his eyes shut in pure mortification.

Harry sighed quietly and willed himself to be patient.

He'd known that it wasn't going to be easy, but the little imp wasn't taking him seriously. How was he going to make any improvement if he won't listen to Harry's advice? Every time he tried to impart some of his wisdom onto Tom, the little bugger found a way to interrupt him; therefore Harry hadn't gotten any further than the most basic explanation of 'spell is powered by a happy memory'.

Maybe he would be more appreciative of his advice now that he realised he wasn't going to be able to master this spell on his own.

"You're not listening to me, Tom," he tried again. "Sheer will isn't enough to successfully cast the spell. The memo-" and as expected, there it was—cue interruption.

"I'm already focusing on the happiest memory I've got, Peverell," Tom snapped, his eyes blown wide and flashing defensively. "As you can clearly see, it's not working," he ground out as civilly as he could manage while clenching the fists hanging stiffly at his sides hard enough to dig angry red crescent marks into his palms.

Tom was trying to reassure himself that it wouldn't matter if he didn't manage to cast a Patronus.

He was trying to convince himself that it wasn't his fault that he didn't have a strong and happy enough memory for the Patronus—not his fault that he didn't have a childhood to speak of.

So what if he didn't have a memory that filled him with tingling warmth? The Patronus charm was a trivial spell that wasn't even part of their curriculum, and while it was somewhat disappointing to find that there was something he wasn't instantly good at, it was of no consequence if he failed to master the spell. Anyhow, genius or not, he should have known that with his dark inclined magical core, it would be almost impossible to cast the heavily loaded light magic.

The longer Tom argued with himself, the more certain he became that it just _didn't matter_.

Harry could see the battle that was raging inside Tom. His grey eyes swirled with uncertainty, self-doubt, and shame as he questioned his capabilities. Then the liquid mercury that made up his irises hardened and flashed resolutely.

The angry, frustrated, and defensive energy that had been vibrating out of Tom's every pore, gathering magic that had been ready to lash out at any moment, abruptly dissolved without any traces of it ever having been there at all.

Tom's furious features settled into an apathetic expression that froze Harry's heart with its cruel familiarity.

Harry hadn't allowed himself to fully realise until then how out of character Tom had been acting around him with his shy and endearing demeanour. The sudden change was a harsh reminder that the Tom standing in front of him wasn't his Tom.

In the mess that is his long and complicated life, Harry sometimes—fine, maybe most of the time—forgot that Tom was just a boy with no memories beyond the past fourteen years that he'd lived. Fourteen years of negligence and discrimination. Fourteen years of having no one but himself and his magic to look out for him.

And there Harry was, further torturing the poor boy.

Harry's mind involuntarily strayed to his recent selfish and manipulative actions, which sent an unexpected pang of guilt through him. Because that's what he was doing, wasn't it? Manipulating a little boy that was starved for the slightest bit of affection?

He'd like to fool himself into thinking that he'd been putting Tom's needs before his own twisted need for revenge, but that would be a lie.

He'd known that Tom wouldn't be able to do the spell. He'd known that all too well, and he'd gotten a sick sense of satisfaction out of the fact that the usually cocky and self-assured boy would be taken down a few notches.

He shouldn't have. He should have known that it was too soon—too delicate a subject to broach with him just yet. He should have anticipated the pain it would cause the unloved boy.

He should have known a lot of things, but everything was so damn blurred all the time.

At times it was almost impossible to distinguish his reality from the one everyone was currently living in. He knew so much about everyone around him that it was hard to focus on the things that have happened and disremember everything else.

He couldn't erase his past—his life—but he also couldn't hold anyone responsible for something they hadn't done yet. He knew this, logically he knew this, but knowing didn't necessarily make it easier to set his bias aside. It was especially hard to do so when there were so many strong, complicated emotions involved—which was a colossal understatement where things between him and Tom were concerned.

At the beginning of Harry's existence, he loathed Tom with an unbridled passion. He'd then fallen in love with him somewhere in the middle and spent the rest up until that point resenting, loathing, and loving him with equal measure. Those were some very strong and complicated emotions to simply ignore, even if compartmentalizing his emotions had become second nature to him.

Harry needed to have a long and serious conversation with himself about his intentions and his goals before he ended up messing this up over a grudge he's been holding onto for as long as he could remember.

Harry swallowed down the bitter taste of guilt and gracefully jumped off the table before closing the distance between him and Tom in two long strides.

Tom continued staring blankly at the uneven brick wall, either not caring or not noticing that Harry had moved to stand in front of him.

"It's not your fault, Tom," Harry whispered, wanting so much to reach out and touch his cheek reassuringly, but holding himself back.

Tom's neck snapped around to face him and as soon as Harry caught sight of Tom's eyes he instantly knew that he'd chosen the wrong thing to say.

"I don't need your pity, Peverell," Tom snapped bitingly while taking a quick step back to turn away from Harry. He crossed his arms defensively over his chest and resumed staring at the wall, pointedly trying to ignore the older boy.

Harry winced at the harsh tone and ran a hand through his hair anxiously. He nervously licked his bottom lip and mulled over his next words very carefully, fully convinced that nothing he said would appease Tom's ire.

Nothing ever appeased his Tom when he got into such a snit… but this _wasn't_ his Tom, he reminded himself firmly. He really had to stop comparing them.

This was a 100% souled up Tom. While Harry figured that the munchkin was somewhat of a sociopath, Tommy dearest hadn't yet turned into the psychopathic monster that he had fallen in love with… which raised a lot of questions about Harry which he'd like to keep on avoiding for the rest of his existence.

At lightning speed, a new question flitted through his mind that left him breathless and dazed.

Would he ever come to love this Tom as he had loved the other? As he'd so kindly pointed out to himself not a moment ago, this wasn't his Tom—would never become his Tom. So would he? Or would Tom become some twisted replacement-

No, Harry wouldn't think about it right then. It was too much to analyse while the subject of his sudden panic was standing in front of him with a tense posture and a mighty miffed expression on his face.

Harry gulped and shoved those thoughts away for later on in the night, when he wouldn't be able to get a wink of sleep anyway, and focused back on Tom-Not-Tom.

"I'm sorry," Harry finally decided to start with, feeling that it was the safest way to pave the path to what he wanted to say. "It wasn't my intention to cause offence, Tom," he said softly, making sure that his face looked appropriately apologetic and remorseful.

Tom's harsh glare involuntarily melted as he listened to Harry's apology, but kept his back turned.

"I didn't get the spell on my first try either," Harry revealed unashamedly, knowing that sharing his own failure with Tom would soothe his frustration. "It actually took me a few months to finally master the spell."

Tom released a scoff that made it very clear that he didn't believe a word Harry said, obviously assuming that he was just trying to make the younger boy feel better.

"While it's quite flattering that you think me so infallible, I'm speaking the truth," Harry vowed, face open and honest.

When that didn't get a reaction from Tom he pressed on, "I was only thirteen when I first tried the spell, and despite whatever impression you might have, I didn't attempt the spell because I was academically ambitious. At that age, my studies where honestly the last thing on my mind. No, my interest in the Patronus stemmed purely out of self-preservation. About a month after my thirteenth birthday, I had my first run-in with some dementors, you see" he said grimly, drawing a surprised gasp from Tom.

Harry grimaced and nodded his head. "Yes, it was an unpleasant experience, to say the least, and unfortunately they seemed to affect me more severely than anyone else around me."

Harry stopped for a moment, glancing towards Tom who had just turned back around to give his full attention. His curiosity was easily detectable in his eyes even if his face gave nothing away.

Harry offered the young wizard a small smile and shrugged. "How that happened isn't important. What's important is that I was defenceless against their effects and attacks, and I hated how helpless I felt. I never wanted to feel that way again. So at the young and tender age of thirteen, I endeavoured to master the Patronus, the only known method of repelling those despicable creatures. I obviously failed, repeatedly," he said flatly, followed by a derisive snort.

This little piece of information definitely continued stirring Tom's interest. Somehow he couldn't picture Hadrian struggling with anything he attempted. He just seemed so… _perfect_.

It was also rather startling that Hadrian felt comfortable enough to share this with him. His trust filled Tom with a profound sense of smugness and satisfaction, but it also made him feel rather warm and short of breath.

Gaining a far-away, glazed look in his eyes, Hadrian continued his story.

"In my desperation, I became reckless, draining myself to the point where attempting a simple Lumos became impossible after my training. I learned some very important lessons while trying to master the spell; patience and self-control, for one, because whether I liked it or not, unless I wanted to leave myself weak and open to attack, I needed to pace myself."

Tom's eyes sharpened at that comment, his mind immediately wondering why a thirteen-year-old Hadrian would be so worried about being attacked. Surely the accident he'd had with the dementors wasn't a regular occurrence? Surely, unlike Tom, thirteen-year-old Hadrian had adults to protect and look after him?

Before Tom could further ponder the matter, Hadrian continued talking, drawing his attention back to the seventh year.

"It took me several months of soul searching to find a thought powerful enough to produce a corporeal Patronus, but I finally managed. Once I broke through the barriers of my comfort, the truth was left staring me in the face, crystal clear."

Tom furrowed his brow and pinched his lips in confusion.

"I'm sorry, that didn't make much sense, did it?" Harry said with a lopsided grin, and sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck.

Tom simply gave him a pointed stare, silently asking him to elaborate.

Harry, clearly struggling for words, licked his bottom lip and nervously bit down on it. The action drew Tom's eyes to his lips and made his mouth go dry, causing him to momentarily forget what they had been discussing.

The reason Harry was having such a tough time picking his words was because he didn't want to accidentally let Tom know how much he knew about him, or Merlin forbid—offend him again.

"Sometimes," Harry said hesitantly, "for some of us... true happiness is veiled by a world of pain—pain that we instinctively try to protect ourselves from. It's impressive how easy it is to be convinced by the lies we hide behind, to accept the feelings we've unwittingly fabricated."

Tom's attentive but relaxed posture tensed, making Harry internally curse himself for his inability to leave well enough alone.

"Of course, that's not the case for everyone," he hurried to add. "That's simply my personal experience. There are those witches and wizards that need only think of flying or food—yes, Tom, food," he repeated amusedly at Tom's disbelieving scoff.

"What kind of moron produces a Patronus by thinking of food?" Tom mumbled lowly to himself, but Harry sharp ears caught it anyway.

"Either a really lucky moron that is absolutely content with his life, or one that is penniless and starved, thinking about a warm meal that has been kindly offered to them."

Those words and Harry's clipped tone effectively shut Tom up. The argument he made hit a sensitive nerve and he found himself uncharacteristically empathising with this hypothetical moron, and he slowly began to understand what Hadrian was trying to explain.

"What I have been masterfully failing to explain is that happiness doesn't have a universal set of rules. It's subjective—defined differently for each individual as a result of everyone's own experiences. Needing some time to master the charm doesn't make you a lesser wizard, Tom. It's a very challenging spell that works on complex emotions. Be honest with yourself and unashamed of the truth you find," he said with a firm yet warm tone. "I'm sure you'll get the hang of it sooner rather than later," he finished, affirming his statement with a reassuring and supportive nod.

Tom curiously narrowed his eyes at Hadrian, wondering why the wizard seemed to have so much faith in his abilities. The fact that he was, quite frankly, a magical prodigy wasn't exactly a secret, but the way Hadrian spoke... He spoke with a kind of certainty that could only stem from a person who has known you for a very long time.

"I appreciate the sentiment, Hadrian, but I honestly don't see any reason to master the spell. Apart from the fact that it repels Dementors, it doesn't have any other unique uses, and I don't see myself being attacked by a swarm of Dementors any time soon," Tom said glibly.

Harry internally winced at that, sincerely hoping that Tom hadn't just jinxed himself.

"While I agree that it's highly unlikely," Harry began slowly before clearing his throat. "It's always better to be safe than sorry, no? They also serve well as messengers. No offence to the owls, of course, but in an emergency, a Patronus is simply more efficient. Not to mention that a fully corporeal Patronus makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. Truly a mood lifter," he rambled, and when his words reached his ears, he ducked his head, his cheeks flushing slightly.

' _Warm and fuzzy? Mood lifter? Really?'_ Harry scolded himself then closed his eyes, feeling absolutely mortified with himself. How old was he? Five?

Tom blinked once, then twice, but managed to hide his bafflement rather well.

Tom watched the older boy for a moment, noting how flustered the usually composed wizard looked, and bit back a smirk.

Tom wasn't quite sure that feeling warm and fuzzy was reason enough to spend months mastering a spell, but he supposed that the messenger bit sounded intriguing enough. He had never read or heard about that being one of the Patronus's functions, but he wasn't about to argue with Hadrian. He had a feeling that he would only be proven wrong by the older boy.

Harry cleared his throat, and while still avoiding eye contact he said, "I think we're done for today, Tom. It's about time for dinner anyway," he sighed and took a step back. "Don't worry about the Patronus too much, yeah? I shouldn't have pushed. Just remember that you're a brilliant wizard, Tom."

Tom felt himself gain a slight blush at the compliment, but didn't allow himself to show Hadrian how flattered he actually felt. "So I've been told," he said with a self-assured smirk.

Harry snorted and shook his head. "Probably much too often by the sound of it. I should really refrain from complimenting you in the future," he said dryly and moved to get his bag from where it lay strewn on the floor next to the teacher's desk.

"You're rather certain that there will be other instances where you'll feel compelled to compliment me, aren't you, Hadrian?" Tom asked cheekily, trying to hide the disconcerting disappointment he felt at watching Hadrian get ready to leave his company behind his usual witty sass.

While Tom definitely didn't want to spend another minute trying that wretched spell, he wasn't quite ready to cut his time with Hadrian short.

Since their impromptu bump-in the last Saturday, Tom had not spent any time with Hadrian at all, and not for lack of trying on his end. He'd even stayed up until four in the morning on Tuesday in hopes of catching the older boy for a short chat, with no luck. It almost drove him mad, thinking about all the possible places that Peverell could be at that time of the night, but he took solace in the fact that there were no rumours about Peverell seeing anyone—not even a single whisper—which wasn't to say that it quenched his concern. Because what could he possibly be doing at all hours of the night? With whom? And how was he never caught out after curfew?

Tom focused back on Hadrian just in time to catch the worried expression crossing over his face.

"You were gone for a second there, Tom. Are you alright? I knew I shouldn't have let you do those last two tries. Even if unsuccessful, the spell can be very draining," he muttered with obvious concerned.

"I'm fine, Hadrian. I simply got lost in my thoughts. There's no need for you to fret," he reassured with an eye-roll. He then went to grab his black leather satchel from the dusty chair he'd left it on.

"If you're sure," Harry relented reluctantly, a worried frown still fixed on his face.

"Do you have any plans after dinner?" Tom found himself asking, surprising both Hadrian and himself.

After a small pause, Harry regretfully nodded his head, sending Tom's heart plummeting into his stomach.

"I've got a meeting with Dumbledore," he informed him as he held the door open for Tom, ever the gentleman.

Tom hissed in his mind at the fool's name but kept his face impassive. "Meeting with Dumbledore?" he feigned indifference, refraining from suspiciously narrowing his eyes at the older wizard.

The professor and Hadrian seem to be much too friendly for Tom's liking.

Harry shrugged and followed Tom out of the room. "I need his opinion on something. I'm planning on putting a bill forward at the Wizengamot this coming session before Yule," he explained.

"Something?" Tom asked him. "Is it possible to be any vaguer?"

Harry smirked and raised his left brow challengingly. They both knew very well that he could have.

"I'm afraid that something is all you're getting for today, Tom. I need to head to the owlery before dinner," he said, inclining his head towards the opposite direction where Tom was headed.

"Oh," was all Tom could muster, unable to hide his disappointment. He'd thought that at the very least he would get to enjoy Hadrian's company until they reached the Great Hall. "Will you be visiting Hogsmeade this weekend?" he asked him, refraining from fidgeting with the leather strap hanging from his shoulder.

He'd honestly not meant to ask him, but he needed to find a way to spend more time with him. Hadrian was always so busy... and how long could he really continue meeting him under the ruse of tutoring? Tom wasn't willing to allow his grades or his hard-earned reputation to suffer because he wants to spend more time with Hadrian. He wasn't that desperate. At least not yet.

Harry tried to act as natural as he could in the face of that question. He swallowed silently and nervously ran a hand through his hair. An action which didn't go unnoticed by Tom's ever watchful eyes.

Harry had already made plans to go with Alphard and Fleamont, and accepting what sounded like an invitation to a romantic rendezvous to Harry's experienced ears was not a good idea at all.

It was much too soon for anything remotely romantic to happen between them. There were stages and phases that they needed to get through first. Yet rejecting Tom would hurt him and leave him thinking that Harry wasn't interested in him that way, which wasn't true—at least Harry didn't think so. He was still confused on that front in light of his earlier 'loving Tom-Not-Tom' revelation.

But how could he make Tom understand his reasons without lying or over-complicating things? He had a strong feeling that Tom wouldn't care much for the age excuse.

"I'm meant to hang out with Alphard and Fleamont. They want to give me a full tour of the village, though I don't see how long that could possibly take. Would you like to join us, Tom?"

Spending time with Black and Potter was not Tom's idea of a good time, and his face must have shown his disgust because Harry started chuckling softly. Tom hadn't realised how close they were standing until he felt Hadrian's hot breath against his cheek.

"Maybe you'll join us for a butterbeer at that pub Alphard mentioned to me," Harry offered instead, and couldn't help but add, "I would really enjoy your company."

Tom's stomach clenched at the way Hadrian's silky voice caressed his ears and had to bite back a small gasp. He cleared his throat and took a step away from him, needing the space to be able to form fully coherent sentences.

"I'll think about it," Tom grinned with more bravado than he actually felt, but was relieved that Hadrian hadn't outright rejected the idea of spending time with him. In fact, he'd invited him along and told that he would enjoy his company. While Tom wasn't about to commit himself to spending any amount of time with Black, the offer still made him feel warm around the collar.

"Good," Harry nodded with that charming boyish grin of his. "I'll see you around, Tom," he said, giving him a three finger salute before turning around.

"See you around, Hadrian," he mumbled to the retreating back, the smile falling from his lips.

Spending time alone with Hadrian was proving to be almost impossible. How was he ever going to seduce him when they never spent more than two hours in each other's company? Most of which was spent surrounded by other people or talking about school?

Should he take a more direct approach? But he couldn't be sure that Hadrian would reciprocate his… affections, for lack of a better term. He hadn't given him the distinct clues that he usually got from people that were attracted to him. In fact, Hadrian hadn't graced him with anything more than friendly interest since their first meeting.

No, a direct approach wouldn't work, he was sure of that. If nothing else because of their age difference. Hadrian seemed to be moral that way.

He'd have to seduce him. Bring him to the point that would snap his control.

He'd love to do that, but for that to happen they needed privacy.

One would think that living in such a large castle would offer plenty of opportunities, but no such luck.

Tom would just have to figure out where Peverell goes during the night. If he had a secret hiding spot that Tom could happen to stumble upon, well… it could make for plenty of time to seduce.

* * *

About an hour later, Harry was sitting comfortably in the Deputy Headmaster's office with his left leg crossed on top of his right, his striking emerald eyes watching the youthful Dumbledore asses him with an uncharacteristic amount of seriousness; even the iconic twinkle was absent from his brilliant blue eyes.

After the initial forced polite greeting and offering of a hot beverage and lemon drop, not another word had been exchanged between Professor and student. They simply sat and watched one another with equally blank expressions on their faces.

Of course, Harry knew exactly why Dumbledore was acting the way he was, and he was rather curious to hear what the man had to say about the manifesto he'd handed him in their previous meeting.

While he knew the reason for the Professor's change in attitude, he honestly couldn't predict what move Dumbledore would make next. Yes, he could make a fairly good guess at what action he would take, but that was all he could do—guess.

In all the years of his immortal life, Harry had never had a reason, nor the will, to seek out the wizard he'd once looked up to. Truth be told, he'd done his very best to avoid the man as much as possible, because while he hadn't been able to bring himself to hate Dumbledore for playing the large role he did in his miserable upbringing, he still felt a lot of resentment towards the wizard.

How could he not? Dumbledore, regardless of his good intentions, had intentionally raised Harry to—quite literally—be a sacrificial lamb for Britain's wizarding world. And yet, as hard as it was to believe, that wasn't what rankled Harry. It was the absence of choice and the lack of trust that had burned him the most.

But being the old and mature immortal that Harry was, he was able to let go of these hard feelings to dance the political dance with the aging Professor.

So, for Harry, sitting in the Deputy Headmaster's office playing a metaphorical game of chess with the ginger-haired wizard, it was a new experience altogether, and he couldn't help but feel excited at the new challenge Dumbledore presented.

One thing was clear to Harry-he wouldn't be growing bored any time soon.

Suddenly Dumbledore shifted in his seat, dragging Harry's attention back onto the wizard sitting tensely in front of him.

Harry watched as Dumbledore leaned forward to rest his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands together, all the while keeping his scrutinizing blue gaze locked onto Harry's sharp green eyes.

It took quite a bit of restraint for Harry not to send the older-looking man a sly wink just to toy with him, but he figured that now wasn't exactly the right time for that sort of thing.

Then Dumbledore finally felt prompted to break the heavy silence around them.

"Might I speak frankly, Mr. Peverell?" he asked him evenly, skipping right over the inconsequential small talk portion of the conversation.

Harry's lips twitched and he raised an amused brow, green eyes twinkling. "Please," he said, gesturing with his right hand for Dumbledore to proceed.

Another few seconds of silence ticked by, then Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and bent down to open one of the drawers on the left side of his desk. He pulled out the familiar, black leather-bound journal he'd given him last week, and then proceeded to carefully place it on the polished wooden surface standing between them.

Dumbledore was looking at the innocent-looking journal as if he couldn't make heads or tails out of it and then turned that same perplexed gaze onto Harry.

"I've read it a total of three times since you've given it to me," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper, almost as if he were divulging an intimate secret with Harry.

"I imagine it was a lot to take in," Harry acquiesced with a small nod of his head, doing a marvellous job at hiding just how entertained he was.

Dumbledore hummed and stroked his long, ginger beard. "You understand, of course, that given the nature of our previous discussions—" he paused, sending Harry a meaningful look, "a manifesto was not what I had been expecting," he said smoothly, managing to conceal the unease Harry knew he felt, but the thinly veiled accusation was not lost on him.

Harry successfully restrained the mocking pout that tugged at his lips and shot the Professor an unimpressed look. "I'd like to believe that was a compliment, sir, but I'm getting a distinct impression that I would be mistaken," he noted, sounding unperturbed by the fact.

Dumbledore dropped the forced detachment and allowed his blue gaze to ice over with his mistrust and suspicion.

"You purposefully misled me into underestimating your ambitions," Dumbledore stated coldly, the soft timbre of his voice turning strained. "I'm well aware that you've only given me a part of the journal. I'm not sure if you've done so on purpose or because you've yet to finish it, although I do suspect it's the former," he remarked pointedly. "In any case, I've read enough to realise that your aspirations reach far beyond the welfare of the magical children in Britain."

No one had ever accused the great Albus Dumbledore of being dim-witted, so Harry wasn't the least bit surprised with the conclusions and assumptions he was drawing.

When Dumbledore realised that Harry wasn't going to say anything to contradict him, his face fell in disappointment, his last shred of hope that he'd misjudged Harry's intentions crumbling to dust.

"When you gave me the journal I thought I was going to find some well thought out, if not somewhat idealistic, ideas regarding the school system," he admitted resignedly. "Instead I find part of a political manifesto written with a certain understanding of the world that goes far beyond what a typical seventh-year student should ever be capable of. Yet it's all there, written in your hand."

' _If only you knew_ ,' thought Harry, taking great pleasure in imagining the face Dumbledore would make should he ever let the man in on his secret.

Would he faint? Have a stroke?

"On the surface, the changes you are proposing may seem like they are serving to aid in the protection of Muggle-borns, but what I see is a young man using the instability and fear caused by the wars raging in both the magical and muggle world to further his own cause."

Good old Dumbledore, always thinking he's ahead of everyone else. Always so righteous in his opinions.

Harry chuckled and looked completely at ease under Dumbledore's icy glare.

"I won't deny that the circumstances in which our worlds find themselves in won't aid in convincing and swaying opinions, but that's solely because the situation serves as an accurate example for why we need such laws and regulations to be implemented," Harry argued calmly.

"There isn't an important enough reason that justifies the invasion of the muggle's life and privacy," Dumbledore swiftly rebutted with a steeled conviction that made Harry frown.

"You don't believe that protecting future generations is enough justification?" Harry asked him, doing nothing to hide the incredulous hitch in his tone. "And beyond that, it would serve to remove all primary reasons for the pureblood's apprehension and distaste towards muggle-born witches and wizards, inadvertently dropping the prejudicial propaganda that has surrounded them for centuries. Isn't that a goal worth striving for? Isn't peace within our own community worth it?"

Dumbledore looked like he was about to argue a very obtuse point, so Harry ignored the rules of polite society and cut off his words before they were given the opportunity to be vocalised.

"If muggle-borns are brought up and taught to respect and follow our values and traditions the purebloods can't hate them for slowly destroying our ways, which the muggle-borns only do because they are unexpectedly thrust into a new and intimidating world, at a very young and impressionable age, no less. We do that, we change- no, we _abolish_ everything they have been taught to believe in, without even bothering to explain it to them, allowing them to flounder about to reach their own uneducated conclusions. It's no wonder that they try to cling to whatever amount of familiarity that they can. And let's not forget that not having been a part of the magical world before the age of eleven makes them feel inferior on principle, even without the constant judgment of the purebloods."

"Mr Peverell-" Dumbledore tried to interject but Harry kept on talking over him.

"Muggle-borns are expected to know everything when they are taught nothing. How exactly is that not negligent?"

This time Dumbledore was more assertive with his interjection, accusation punctuating every word he spoke. "So you believe that the utilisation of dark artefacts, truth potions, Occlumency, and secrecy contracts is a plausible solution for that problem?"

Harry was unable to refrain from rolling his eyes at the wizard.

"The only reason why my invention would be classified as a dark artefact is because the activation runes need to be drawn in blood. So you will understand if I don't succumb to unfounded prejudice concerning _dark magic_ ," he intoned sarcastically, "and maintain my stance on its use. Particularly when it will grant us the location of every magical child born."

Dumbledore shook his head in a pitying manner that made it fairly easy to anticipate his next words.

"My dear boy, you're still so very young. You can't possibly understand the ramifi-"

Any amusement that Harry had been feeling quickly drained away. He was willing to take a lot of things, but platitudes were not one of them.

"I'd rather not take a stroll down the road of denial if it's all the same to you, sir," he said, tone suggesting that it wasn't really a request. "Let's not pretend that you're an uneducated man, or that I am some clueless youth that you'll be able to push your lies onto."

Dumbledore looked startled at the blatant disrespect he was being shown by his student and straightened his posture, obviously in an attempt to intimidate and remind Harry of his place.

Harry wasn't impressed.

"Mr. Peverell, you seem to be forgetting just whom you're currently addressing."

Knowing that he wasn't going to win himself any favours by further insulting the Professor, Harry did his best to sound sincere in his apology.

"My apologies, Professor. I'll admit to sometimes allowing my passions to get ahead of me. But, respectfully, sir, besides the supposedly dubious artefact, what else was it that you said had you worried? Ah, yes, the truth potions and use of Occlumency."

Right, so Harry could have been slightly more diplomatic with that apology, and by the looks of Dumbledore he thought much of the same. But then again, Harry didn't need Dumbledore to be his best friend—preferred it very much if he wasn't.

"Without the truth potions and Occlumency, we won't be able to tell the muggle-born's parents' true intentions. Without them, we won't be able to prevent the abuse that might arise in light of the parent's new knowledge. Don't assume that I mean to place all parents in one boat, but I find that it is our duty to make sure that their home life is within the acceptable. Such matters should not be left to guesswork, sir. Nor should they be left to be dealt with until after they've begun studying at Hogwarts. We both know that accidental magic in a muggle-born child might lead to emotional and physical abuse well before the age of eleven, which I might add is also mostly because the parents don't know what's really happening to their children," Harry pointed out none to delicately.

Dumbledore floundered for a moment but quickly found his confidence again.

"While I understand where you are coming from, Mr. Peverell," he said honestly but quite dismissively. "I simply cannot, in good conscience, agree to those methods."

Harry waited for a beat, thinking that the esteemed Professor would have more to add, but he didn't, which caused Harry to huff offendedly.

That was it? Disagree without offering a reason in return?

"And on what grounds would that be, sir?" Harry pressed, not about to make it easy for the wizard.

From the slight widening of Dumbledore's eyes, Harry guessed he thought the matter had been set to rest. Not very smart for a man that was supposedly one of the greatest wizards to ever live.

"It's unethical," came the resolute declaration from the older-looking man's lips.

He honestly thought it was that simple, did he?

Harry chuckled humorlessly and shook his head. "Unethical? And abandoning a child in need isn't? And I suppose that the next thing you'll be telling me is that leaving our world vulnerable to discovery isn't a pressing matter of concern. Yes, Professor. Let's leave the safety of our community up to faith and chance, shall we? Let's disregard all the facts staring us in the face and hope with naive optimism that it all turns into roses and rainbows. Let's ignore the dangers muggles pose because _Merlin forbid_ our pride be hurt," Harry ranted mockingly and he wasn't quite done yet.

"It's rather frustrating, if you ask me. Both factions are willfully ignorant to the bigger picture because of different superficial reasons. They are more involved in proving who's right then they are on fixing the problems choking us from all sides. I've read the transcripts of all the Wizengamot meetings held in the past five years, and I can assure you with absolute certainty that the state we've fallen into has gone well past laughable and started trudging into crying-rivers-of-despair territory," Harry stated, as though he were simply pointing out how dreadful the weather was outside rather than the sob-worthy state their Ministry had fallen into.

Dumbledore sighed dismally and started rubbing soothing circles against his temple. At some point during Harry's tangent, the hostility in Dumbledore's crystalline blue eyes had dimmed, outshined by his reluctant understanding.

"Was there anything else you wanted to add, my boy?" he asked him with a tone that could be mistaken for teasing had Harry not caught the underlying warning in his voice.

Not one to waste an opportunity, Harry grinned and shrugged.

"I suppose the secrecy contract is the only thing I haven't touched up on, but I can't fathom what misgivings you could possibly have about it. It's really no different from the other contract Muggle-born's parents receive when they are formally introduced to our world. Albeit, it's a bit more restrictive and they are forced to sign it eleven years earlier, but the principle is the same. I don't find that unreasonable at all," he said waspishly.

"But that's not where it stops, is it, Mr. Peverell?" Dumbledore asked him with eyes that gleamed knowingly behind his spectacles.

' _Sagacious, Professor_ ,' thought Harry, his grin turning into a wide teeth-baring smirk.

Well, if he hadn't figured out at least that much, Dumbledore wouldn't have been the man Harry thought he was.

"No, it isn't," Harry conceded. "Everyone within our community is a threat to the Statute of Secrecy, especially since the majority don't have the foggiest idea of how to blend in with the muggles. As you've perceptively deduced, the parents are only the first step, and likewise, the secrecy contracts are only the first step in many phases to secure our safety."

"One of those phases being the hypothetical new primary school curriculum you've devised. Teach the muggle-borns about wizarding culture, and teach those coming from wizarding families muggle culture," Dumbledore gathered, sounding moderately impressed for the first time since Harry stepped into his office that evening.

Harry gave him a small affirming nod and a slight shrug of his shoulders. "It's relieving, yet also so very maddening, how most of our problems can be fixed with a proper education system," he commented breezily with evident criticism.

Dumbledore chuckled and contemplatively scratched his beard. "And you really think that the purebloods are just going to fall into line?" he questioned dubiously with a slight sardonic lilt, but Harry caught his uncertainty in the way his eyes flitted away from his for just a moment, before locking back onto his green gaze with renewed conviction.

"I can understand why some of the light families might feel inclined to agree with your propositions, but the darker side will not accept the integration of muggle-borns and their families into our world. Furthermore, the notion that they would allow themselves to be educated in the way of muggles is nigh impossible."

The unwavering certainty in which Dumbledore naively spoke did nothing but elevate Harry's amusement.

"You don't give the opposition enough credit, sir. Do you really think that once I've shoved the irrefutable truth in their faces, they won't cave? I'm positive that at first, they will try to discredit my work, but in order to do so, they will have to crack open a few books and search the same files I have. Unfortunately for them—" Harry paused and threw Dumbledore a self-assured smirk, "—they will find that the numbers I've so generously researched and compiled together for the Wizengamont's benefit are indeed authentic.

"It will be a shock at first, no doubt, and who can blame them? To find out that coupling with half-bloods, muggle-borns, or even muggles, will, in most cases, produce stronger offspring... It's turning everything they ever thought they knew upside down. But once they've given it all a few days' thought, the unavoidable insecurity and fear will settle in. I can guarantee that when all is said and done, the majority of them will cease pushing for pureblood marriages, if not outright refusing them—which, yes, brings with it its own set of issues to the table, but nothing that can't be easily fixed. I might be remiss here, but I prioritise inbreeding over marital issues," he said, sarcasm practically dripping from his words. "It's the lesser of two evils, if you will."

"Not all of them will step out of their pride and accept your pretty words and logical reasoning, Mr. Peverell," Dumbledore insisted, rather weakly in Harry's opinion.

"No, not all of them," Harry agreed. "But the world doesn't need all of them to agree, just the majority, and time will root out the rest."

Harry gave a small pause and cocked his head to the side.

"So you see, Professor, all I really have to do is convince the purebloods that without fresh blood, their families will eventually die out, and _et voilà,_ everything else starts slowly tumbling into place. Muggle-borns and their families will be brought into our world early, safely, and accepted—increasing the probability that they will choose to stay in the wizarding world even after their schooling at Hogwarts is done. Wizards will be more willing to learn about Muggles because it would enhance their chances of finding a spouse in the Muggle world; ergo less potential for accidental exposure due to ignorance. I could go on, but I believe you understand the gist of it, sir."

Dumbledore gave him a curt nod. "I do," he said shortly, "but I also understand that several moral and ethical laws need to be bent so that you can achieve your vision of an ideal and perfect world. It's truly fascinating, the way you look at the world, Mr. Peverell. I can also recognise that your intentions were pure at the start of this endeavour, might even still be so at the core, but the ends do not justify the means."

While Harry was able to stop himself from groaning, he was quite helpless against the exasperated expression that twisted his features.

It seemed like Dumbledore wasn't going to stop being a judgmental and prejudicial wanker any time soon.

"Not even for the greater good, sir?" he asked him, earning himself a sharp look from Dumbledore, to which Harry simply responded with a challenging smirk.

Yes, reminding the righteous Professor of his utter hypocrisy seemed like the way to go.

"Tell me, Professor, what is it that you're really objecting to? Is it truly the use of dark artefacts and mind arts? Or is it possible that perhaps you're scared of all the power the success of such an undertaking would grant me?"

It was a rhetorical question, of course. Which was rather convenient for Dumbledore, as he looked like he'd just swallowed his tongue.

"I don't blame you, sir," Harry said smoothly, "if your thoughts have wandered down such roads. I mean, we both know that the Ministry will not be springing the galleons to fund the department needed to enforce and maintain such new laws. And we best believe that they are not going to be the ones building the shelters for the families pulled out of the Muggle warzone, the orphanage, or the primary school. I would, therefore, be the primary benefactor of all these projects. Only the right thing to do when it hardly makes a dent in my fortune," he added demurely, but the twinkle in his eyes told a different story.

It was time to get down to the crux of the matter.

"Which leads us to what really has you shaking in your skin, Professor. The one question you've been repeatedly asking yourself since you've read through the journal for the first time. 'What exactly is Mr Peverell going to do with all that gratitude, debt owed to him, and influence?' Yes, let's not forget the influence I'll have over the way the younger generation is brought up. I'll have had them all under my direction for six full years before they are dropped into your custody—some of them even longer. It would make some of your own plans fall asunder, would it not?"

Dumbledore's face had gone blank the moment Harry had used the word 'undertaking' and hadn't twitched since, but his non-reaction was telling enough, even without Harry's ability to feel the panicked waves coming off the wizard.

Harry decided that it was time to stop playing and start reassuring the older-looking wizard before he caused him an aneurysm.

"All that being said, I can understand your apprehension and suspicions, sir. You don't know me at all, so how can you possibly trust my intentions? To you, I'm a nobody that appeared out of thin air wearing the Peverell Lordship ring."

Sceptical blue eyes glanced at said ring, and Harry felt tempted to offer it up for examination, but refrained—barely.

"But that's the reason why I'm here in your office, sir. So that you may get to know me. Had I wanted to hide my plans I could have easily done so. Instead, I've given you the first part of my manifesto, and now I'm here explaining myself to you. Doesn't really scream deceptive politician to me, don't you agree?"

Dumbledore did not look convinced if the tensing of his shoulders and the hardening of his eyes were anything to go by.

"You possess a silver tongue, Mr. Peverell. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Coming from anyone else that would have probably been a compliment, but Harry knew what the wizard was getting at. He was alluding to the fact that Harry could simply be saying all this to manipulate him. There was nothing definitive from stopping Harry from having an ulterior motive to all the plans he'd shown him.

"Not in the past couple of hours, sir," Harry couldn't help saying with a cock-sure smirk that had Dumbledore clenching his jaw.

Suddenly Harry dropped the smirk and a solemn, twisted frown fell in its place.

"In all seriousness, sir. All I strive for is equality, our world's safety, and the preservation of magic. Whatever else you may believe of me, I did not mislead you in that. Just because you assumed I wouldn't be able to succeed, doesn't mean that I mislead you. I don't want the power that will inevitably be at the tip of my fingers, and I have no intention whatsoever of misusing it," Harry insisted firmly. "It's not a dictatorship I seek. I'm convinced that once I've set things in motion, other people will finally stand up and start pulling their own weight. I'm banking on that because that's the only way we can finally start thriving once more."

There was a long and tense pause before Dumbledore finally decided to speak again.

"You're much too suave for me to trust you and take your words at face value, Mr. Peverell. I've met the charming visionary type before, and I've already learned my lessons. Ones which I do not intend to forget any time soon."

Harry's heart almost went out to Dumbledore when he caught a quick glimpse of the undiluted pain reflecting in his eyes at the reminder of lost love and betrayal. Harry was much too acquainted with such an emotion not to recognise it, even if the other wizard did a very good job at hiding it.

All sympathetic feelings towards Dumbledore flew out the proverbial window when he remembered what a hypocritical bugger he was.

"I'm not asking for your unwavering trust, Professor. All I am asking for is the benefit of the doubt," was all Harry had to say, looking completely at ease, as if Dumbledore's opinion didn't really matter either way.

"You wish to sway me to your cause," Dumbledore deduced, incorrectly for once.

"Not quite, Professor. As you are well aware, I don't need your support to make all that happen," Harry said, gesturing towards the charmed journal he'd given him. "But I also know that everything would go much more smoothly if you didn't fight me or question me every step of the way. So I'm giving you the opportunity to understand my motives, so that we might, perhaps, come to a civil understanding."

Dumbledore watched Harry for a moment to gauge his sincerity and saw nothing but honesty shining in his emerald green eyes, which caused him to purse his lips and draw his eyebrows together in a deep frown.

"You seem to give my influence in our community too much credence, Mr. Peverell. I am but a simple Transfigurations professor," Dumbledore said, humble as ever.

Harry tilted his head to the side and fixed Dumbledore with a disappointed stare. "Let's not waste time on false modesty, Professor."

Dumbledore seemed like he was about to protest, but Harry shot him down with an irritated glower. "You and I both know that you're going to succeed Headmaster Dippet in a few years time, sir, and while I've only just recently returned to England, I am not blind to the fact that the lighter families show you a great deal of respect and trust," he said with a tone that brokered no argument. "Then there are whispers, of course," he added slyly, as if it were a mere afterthought.

"Whispers?" inquired Dumbledore sharply.

"Yes, whispers," nodded Harry with an amused smile. "They are but faint murmurs caught in a storm, but an attentive ear might catch their meaning. About how the simple Transfigurations Professor at Hogwarts might be the only one powerful enough to defeat the rising Dark Lord. Curious whispers, don't you think, Professor?"

"Indeed," Dumbledore sighed, adam's apple bobbing with a silent gulp.

"Imagine the influence and power that would fall at your feet should you manage to thwart the most powerful Dark Lord in centuries. You'd be offered the Minister's position, no doubt, which you'll humbly refuse, of course. Your place is in Hogwarts, after all, nurturing the minds of future generations, and far away from the temptation of power. But you will still accept the position of Supreme Mugwump and Chief Warlock because you don't trust anyone else with those positions."

Dumbledore's choked incredulity was enough to convince even an invalid that Harry was hitting the bull's eye with each statement that rolled brazenly and smoothly off his tongue.

"Do feel free to stop me whenever you feel I have erred in my assumptions, sir. After all, I didn't have the benefit of a well-drafted manifesto, and had to speculate based on hearsay," Harry said, delivering the metaphorical checkmate of this round.

Dumbledore's ashen face and speechlessness indicated that this was time for Harry to take his leave and allow the professor to process his thoughts.

"I see. I'll leave you to consider what has just been discussed, sir. I'm sure that, in the end, we will be able to come to an understanding. Same time next week?"

Once Dumbledore gave him a terse nod in response, Harry gracefully got up from his chair, politely inclined his head towards the stupefied professor, and soundlessly left the room.

Once the door to his office closed behind Hadrian Peverell, Dumbledore slumped in his seat and put his head in shaking hands.

Only two things were running through his mind.

' _Who exactly was the boy?'_ and _'Merlin please let his intentions lie true with his words.'_

* * *

 **26th November, 1941**

 **Slytherin Dungeon**

Alphard wasn't stupid—not by a long shot.

He was one of the brightest students in his year without having to be overly studious, a fact his younger brother was deeply envious of, given that he had to put in so much effort just to keep up with his classmates.

Sharp observation skills were among Alphard's many talents. He enjoyed collecting secrets from the shadows, most of which didn't serve a purpose beyond his own entertainment, but some others he stumbled upon were more… profound. Such secrets would be deviously filed away just in case he had a need for them in the future.

That being said, politics were most definitely not Alphard's cup of tea. Be it Slytherin, Wizengamot, or family politics, he simply wasn't interested. Politics were stressful and demanded an amount of socialising Alphard wasn't comfortable with. He preferred watching everything unfold, and maybe offering a small nudge where he saw fit.

He was forever grateful for the fact that it was Orion that was being groomed to be the Lord of House Black. It spared Alphard a lot of misery.

Alphard had never belonged to any side. His self-preservation demanded that he stay neutral in all matters, and since he wasn't going to be Lord Black, he had the luxury to do so.

Then Hadrian James Peverell entered the scene.

He had been instantly smitten, of course, and who could blame him? Harry was probably as close to perfection as a fallible, mortal human could be.

Try as he might, Alphard couldn't help feeling drawn to the powerful young wizard. He supposed that was the case with everyone that had the pleasure of his acquaintance, but Alphard had the fortune, or perhaps misfortune, of being Harry's close friend. It was thoroughly impossible to get over a person you were constantly in close contact with—especially when you weren't the main initiator of said contact.

For some reason that still wasn't clear to Alphard, Harry had picked the Black family as his surrogate family. He had no need for them, not truly. He would have had Arcturus's support even if he hadn't allowed himself to be practically kidnapped into the family. Yet for reasons beyond all of Alphard's rational comprehension, Harry came to care for them. It was astounding how easily he fit in with the crazy lot of them as if he'd always belonged among them.

As was mentioned, Hadrian came along and Alphard found himself involuntarily choosing a side—Harry's side.

He was in awe of how easily Harry played the game. Everyone in his family was awed, particularly his uncle.

The Black children had been sure that Harry would make a play to dominate their house once term started, confident that he would be sorted into Slytherin house and that he was more than capable of overthrowing the fourteen-year-old King. But they were left surprised when, even though Harry had been sorted into Slytherin, he'd decided not to challenge Tom Riddle's reign.

When Alphard had finally gathered enough courage to ask about it after the incident with Malfoy and Avery, all Harry had said was, 'Alphard, dear. The ruler of Slytherin may not hold reign over all of Hogwarts.'

Alphard was ready to admit, even if only to himself, that those words, followed by his wicked smirk and the mad, scheming glint in Harry's eyes, had aroused him to the point where he'd had to discreetly excuse himself to take care of his persisting problem down south.

Concur Hogwarts Harry did, even if it was done in the most subtle of ways.

The whole student body now did their best to follow Harry's example—striving to please him, while most didn't even realise that they were.

It was unnerving, the power Hadrian's words alone possessed. If he didn't know him so well, Alphard would be terrified of all the small observations he'd made about Harry. Even though sometimes he did wonder…he wondered if he knew Harry at all.

It was within the realm of possibility that Harry was simply playing one very long con. Alphard knew without a shadow of a doubt that Harry was more than capable of it, maybe even possessed the cruelty to relish in it.

Whenever those thoughts crossed his mind, they always washed an icy unease over him, but he was always quick to dismiss them.

Harry wasn't needlessly manipulative and cruel, and Alphard truly believed that. His magic sung at him to trust the wizard.

He does trust Harry—explicitly—and Alphard usually approved of all of Harry's games, but he most certainly didn't approve of the newest game he was indulging in. _Not at all._

Harry thought he was being subtle and discreet about it, and to his credit, had Alphard not been so attuned to his presence, he probably wouldn't have noticed anything was amiss—but notice he did.

Harry was playing with Riddle. What type of game he was playing, Alphard didn't know, but one thing was certain: Riddle had Harry's attention.

His suspicions had been confirmed the previous Saturday, when Harry invited the younger boy to sit with them in the common room to entertain him with a game of chess. Alphard hadn't been able to stomach the scene and had fled as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

The following days Harry had impeccably restrained himself from seeking out the boy, but the fact stands that Harry had to _restrain_ himself from doing so, and that bred a special type of beast inside Alphard. On the other hand, he was eternally grateful for whatever it was that was holding Harry back from pursuing the boy when he quite obviously wanted to.

He'd said nothing about Harry's evident fascination with the younger wizard, hoping that his interest and curiosity would wither with time. Besides, as long as Harry didn't act on his clear interest, there was nothing for Alphard to say.

But that was then.

Now Harry sat there looking as if he didn't have a worry in the world, and casually mentioned that he invited Tom to join them at the Three Broomsticks on the coming Hogsmeade weekend.

Displeasure was not a strong enough word to cover how Alphard felt.

"Why?"

Alphard thought that it was a very valid question and didn't warrant the startled expression on Harry's face. But perhaps it was the angry incredulity in which the one-word question had been spoken that startled Harry.

What? Did he think Alphard would simply nod his head and smile? His stance on the Riddle subject had been made clear to Harry since he'd first mentioned the boy's name in his presence.

Harry sat up from his slouched position and sighed.

"I was simply being polite, Al. He asked if I was going and I mentioned that I had plans with you and Monty…" he trailed off with a small shrug.

"And you couldn't possibly disappoint him by rejecting his unspoken invitation," Alphard said, words loaded with heavy sarcasm.

Harry winced and grimaced. "Al," he pleaded but Alphard didn't give him any time to argue.

"Don't, Harry," he snapped, sliding out of the plush chair he'd just been stiffly sitting in. "I just don't understand. You're smarter than this. I know you are. How can you allow yourself to fall into whatever trap he's set for you?"

Harry gulped and looked away from Alphard's disappointed and accusing eyes. Eyes the same shade as Sirius's.

"I'm perfectly capable of handling Tom-"

"Oh, it's _Tom_ now, is it?" Alphard interrupted with a disbelieving chuckle.

Alphard turned around, giving his back to Harry, and clamped his eyes shut. There was no point getting upset about this—no point in getting jealous.

"Forget I said anything, Hadrian," he mumbled before walking away from Harry.

It had become rather clear to Alphard that he wasn't going to be able to reason with Harry about this. At least not right then.

He'd bide his time and wait for the right moment to strike. He wasn't about to let Tom Riddle win over his Harry without a fight.

* * *

That night Harry made his way to his usual spot on top of the Astronomy tower feeling incredibly solemn. Alphard had given him the cold shoulder for the rest of the evening and it put Harry in a foul mood.

He hated being at odds with his friend, but what could he say? Alphard was only trying to protect him from the very real threat Tom could pose, and he couldn't fault him for that. That didn't mean that Alphard's childish behaviour wasn't bothering Harry.

Harry climbed up to the roof and was surprised to find Death waiting for him.

"Oh, so you've finally decided to turn up again, did you?" Harry snarked, his foul mood increasing as Death's presence reminded him of his friend's noticeable absence over the past week.

"Miss me, dear?" Death asked coyly, not bothering to hide his glee at his friend's apparent foul mood, knowing very well that his chipper attitude would only serve to worsen Harry's mood.

"Cut the bullshit," Harry growled, narrowing his eyes. "Where the buggering fuck have you been?" he questioned snappishly, expecting an answer— _pronto_.

"Here and there," Death answered evasively, smirked then added, "and sometimes everywhere."

"Merlin, you can be such a prat sometimes," he huffed. "I called for you! Don't I warrant even a cursory check-in anymore?"

"I know you called, but I needed some time," was all Death said in his defence, not sounding the least bit apologetic about it.

"Oh? Time to do what, exactly?" Harry asked suddenly feeling very curious, and moved to stand next to Death's imposing figure

"To think, Harry," he replied flatly. "I understand that it might be a foreign concept to you, but I needed some time to think."

"About what?" Harry pressed, ignoring Death's very bad dig at him. He was usually much better at insulting him. Something must really be resting heavily on his mind.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss,"was Death's short answer.

" _Not at liberty to discuss_ ," mocked Harry with a snort and roll of his eyes. "You're full of Hippogriff dung, Death. Honestly. We never keep secrets from each other, why start now?"

"Because it's my prerogative to do so," he said calmly, but with such finality that it took Harry aback.

A very tense silence followed the statement as Harry tried to gather his thoughts.

Harry didn't know what was wrong with his friend, couldn't even begin to guess, but he knew him well enough to know not to further press the issue. Death would speak his mind when he was ready.

"Today's not my day," he sighed instead, taking a seat.

"I guess you're referring to the little spat you had with Alphard Black earlier this evening?"

Harry groaned and closed his eyes. "Don't even," he moaned, dropping his head into his hands.

"Yes, your lack of suitors is absolutely maddening. I'm sure no one would like to trade you for your problems."

' _Sarcasm duly noted_ ,' Harry thought as he turned his head to glare at his friend.

"I promise not to let my irritation out on you, if you promise to show me the same courtesy."

Death's only answer was silently taking a seat next to Harry.

They didn't say anything else for the rest of the night, simply enjoyed each other's comforting presence while they lost themselves in their own thoughts.


	8. Chapter 8

**November 27th, 1941**

As dawn broke through the twinkling night sky, casting all the bright stars away, Death started feeling a sense of foreboding crawling it's way up his gut. It itched and nagged at him throughout the early morning, agitating him to the point where he resigned himself to dealing with it.

He didn't necessarily _care_ about what was going to happen—didn't care a wit about it, really. It wasn't his task to care about the happenings and failings of the creatures of Earth. His only chores—and his only reason for existence—was to keep the balance between the living and the dead, and to serve as a bridge between the two realms. Chores which he has performed admirably since the beginning of time.

So, the sole reason why he'd bother with looking into this foreboding signal he was receiving was simply because he wanted to quiet down the doom-and-gloom instincts that were going haywire in him. Which, true enough, wasn't altogether unusual in these times. What with wars of the near-apocalyptic variety that were currently underway and causing all sorts of mayhem in the world.

 _So much useless death and carnage_ , Death sighed irritably.

Humans would never change, despite how 'evolved' they may think themselves to be.

It's always about power and violence. Well… maybe sometimes it's about sex too, but even a large chunk of that was about power and violence.

Bleh, stupid mortals. Always adding onto his workload and making everything difficult for him.

Alright, fine. Maybe workload was stretching it a tad bit, but being the gateway to the other side wasn't exactly all fun and games. It lost its novelty way back in BCE; about a hundred millennia ago, give or take.

He wished, and not for the first time, that he could simply eradicate all those insufferable _humans_. Yes, please note the general term used. Magical or not, he'd like to see them all dead.

Things were so much more peaceful before their creation.

But Harry wouldn't like such a scenario. Sure, if everything was shot to hell again, he'd probably be willing to give up on them, but he wouldn't be _happy_ about it, which only means that Death wouldn't get any rest for a very, very, _very_ long time.

Right, okay. Back to the issue at hand. The issue being that an occurrence of the majorly wicked variety was about to happen that day, and not the good sort of wicked, but the sort of wicked that sent a lot of souls packing to the realm of the dead.

The location where the wickedness was going to take place was a non-issue.

All his prickling and burning senses were pulling him towards Hogsmeade, the quaint wizarding village close to Hogwarts. He was also getting four smaller pings from other locations in Britain.

There wasn't anything significant about today's date that he could remember. There weren't any battles scheduled that warranted the prickling sensation down his spine—the one warning him of the dreadful possibility that a considerable number of souls might be about to pass through him.

In the other two or three times that he's lived through the year of 1941, nothing ever happened on the 27th of November, of that he was certain—almost completely certain, that is.

Still, whatever was happening, was going to happen much too close to Harry...

Not that he was worried about Harry, because he wasn't. Harry was a big boy and didn't need Death to protect him. He had a back-to-life guarantee on his soul and body that made worrying a daft and absurd notion.

So, no, he was definitely _not_ worried about Harry.

Death decided to pointedly ignore the sudden drop in temperature around him.

What was today? Today. Today. Today was… well, it was a Hogsmeade weekend, wasn't it?

 _Bugger._

If Death remembers correctly—and he was quite certain that he did—the little witches and wizards residing in Hogwarts were probably going to be wandering around Hogsmeade today.

Not really the best of signs, to say the least.

He could see it now; a blundering mass of nitwits trapped in the village with no hope of survival, burning and destruction all around them, and death, of course. A lot of dead—no longer blundering—students. Oh, and villagers, too, he supposed.

 _Bugger._ _No time to waste._

A few moments later the humbling icy mountains Death had been admiring were gone, replaced by the mundane sight of the old wizarding village.

As his eyes swept over Hogsmeade, that nagging feeling he'd been feeling all morning increased tenfold in its intensity. Fun stuff, that.

If there was ever any doubt that something was about to happen, it was now gone.

Obviously, the village was going to be attacked, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that it was going to be Grindelwald's men that attack the unassuming village.

What he did not understand was how this was happening.

Grindelwald was not the kind of Dark Lord that strikes on a whim. Each and every one of his attacks were planned weeks in advance, and as far as Death knew from his visit two days ago, his next attack was planned to take place in a small village in the south of France, targeting some Unspeakables in hiding, and definitely _not_ Hogsmeade village or any other location in Britain.

Then there was also the fact that Grindelwald hadn't planned on attacking on British soil anytime soon, as he was quite adamant on avoiding his ex-lover for as long as possible.

This, whatever was going to happen, was a drastic change in plans. Something must have happened in the past two days that changed Grindelwald's mind—something urgent enough to warrant an emergency attack...

Harry. He's been informed about Harry, and it seems like he didn't much care for the news he received, as evident by the five surprise attacks that were underway.

 _Bugger._

This was not going how Harry had wanted it to go—at all.

Sure, they had chosen the name Peverell on purpose, knowing that it would provoke a reaction from the current reigning Dark Lord. Harry had wanted to speed up the process of Grindelwald's fall from power to avoid some of the larger massacres that had happened—would happen—but this escalated much quicker than either one of them had anticipated.

The plan had been for Death to let Harry know when Grindelwald finally got the news so that they could get everything rolling. The Dark Lord was to fall by August next year. Harry was going to subtly push Dumbledore to face him, but if he didn't bite, Harry would do it himself. Whether he would do so anonymously or not was still up for debate.

Death had been diligently checking every evening, making sure the Dark Lord was still in the dark. Alright, so maybe he'd skipped going a few times this past week because he'd been a little bit distracted, but he'd gone two nights ago and everything had been perfectly fine!

One night. One night was all it took.

 _Bugger. Harry was going to be so furious with him._

You'd think that after all his millennia of service as Death he'd have earned himself some seer abilities, but alas, that was unfortunately not a gift of his. Sure, if he went to one of the veils he could look into different time periods, but everything was always so shifty. It gave him a right headache, it did. Not that seer abilities were all that reliable, what with all the different possibilities and split-second change-of-hearts humans tend to have.

Not that he thinks mortals are fickle or anything. He doesn't.

Right now, Death wouldn't mind some unreliable seer abilities, though. Anything would be more helpful than this nagging feeling that was annoying the hell out of him. But unfortunately, he wasn't all-powerful and all-knowing like Mother Magic. Even magnificent creations like him had their very few limitations.

Though he did have his suspicions that Mother Magic had deliberately not given him such a gift to make it harder for him to fuck with the creatures of Earth.

He didn't blame her...

 _Focus._

Right, okay. So, something was going to happen to these itty-bitty mortals, that much was clear. But he couldn't very well go to Harry with some cryptic warning of coming evil. He had to have concrete evidence, like a plan, or Harry would have his hide.

Not that he wasn't already—going to have his hide, that is.

 _Buggering fuck._

How had he missed this?

Yes, he'd been a bit off his game this past week, so to speak. Ever since he'd started kicking himself for caring so much about Harry's damned _happiness_.

Travelling to this time period had been revenge and a gift rolled in one. He'd thought that maybe, while saving the world, he could get his old Harry back, with the added bonus of torturing him some before the goal of everlasting happiness was achieved.

He had prepared himself for various scenarios in which Harry lost his shit, but what he hadn't prepared himself for was the intense hatred he personally felt towards Tom Riddle.

He'd tried to ignore it, and while he was well-versed in the art of ignoring things, he was simply unable to ignore his ever-growing hatred for the boy. Each time he set eyes on the boy he felt a flicker of cold rage flow through him before he'd manage to quickly shut the door and lock the rage away.

He knew why he hated Tom Riddle, and it wasn't for any reasons other people might hate Tom Riddle for. Death hated him because he had broken Harry, and despised him even more because... well, that wasn't really important right then.

The point was that he hated Tom more than he had anticipated, and that's why, over the past week, he'd turned into such a contemplative creature. He didn't enjoy the change, but nonetheless, he was thinking—thinking a lot—about their options. Harry's and his own, that is, not Harry's and Tom's options.

His favourite solution was for them to hop into another time. Maybe he could tempt Harry with Sirius Black. He'd always liked the lad the best out of all of Harry's suitors. He'd even allowed Harry to bond with him, had he not?

Death had to admit that he had acted a tad rashly by bringing them here, overly consumed by revenge and the need for Harry to be more than just content. He really should have thought this over more thoroughly… but _no_ , he had wanted to give Harry another shot at _happiness_. Circe, when did he turn into such a sentimental sap?

 _Focus._

That's right. Less with the whining and more with the warnings.

Though he did file away a quick, reprimanding, ' _Prioritise better in the future_ _,_ _you daft git!_ '.

* * *

It was one o'clock in the afternoon, and Harry was lounging comfortably in one of the booths at the back of the Three Broomsticks, listening to grandpops Monty ramble on about the runes essay they'd been assigned that week and the injustice of its assigned length.

As planned, Alphard, Fleamont, and Harry had spent a pleasant morning wandering around the mostly empty village of Hogsmeade, since the majority of the student-body liked to sleep in until noon on a Saturday.

Once the streets became busier and all their shopping had been done, the three of them had decided to treat themselves to a nice lunch and made their way to the famous Three Broomsticks.

Together with their lunches they had ordered a nice firewhiskey—the top shelf kind that most Hogwarts students couldn't afford—making the most of the time they had to let loose.

It had been Alphard's treat, of course. Although Harry had been surprised that he'd also paid for Monty. But then again, it was probably done more out of a twisted sense of Black pride than any actual kindness. Not that Monty minded. To him, a free meal was a free meal.

By the time all the food had been polished off their plates, they were already on their third firewhiskey, feeling buzzed and content just sitting there, talking about anything and everything that caught their fancy. Well, not anything. Al and Monty had strictly forbidden Harry from talking about any politics during their outing, which had amused the immortal wizard greatly. He'd really become _that_ person, hadn't he? The type that couldn't shut up about _politics_. Merlin, how far he'd fallen.

Despite the temporary embargo on his most recent favourite topic of discussion, Harry was having a good time, he really was... but he had to admit that once the second firewhiskey settled in his belly, he became somewhat distracted. He was honestly trying his best to pay attention to what his friends were saying, but he'd steadily caught himself staring at the door, watching and waiting for a certain dark-haired boy to walk through it, having taken him up on his offer to join them for a butterbeer.

Harry was so distracted that he barely even noticed that Alphard had thrown his arm around his shoulder and absently started playing with the tips of his low hanging ponytail.

With every person that passed through the door, anxiety coiled tighter inside Harry's stomach, and he wasn't even sure if he was hoping for or dreading Tom's arrival. Did he want Tom to show up or not?

The verdict was still out on that, and wasn't that the kicker?

Ever since that unbidden question had popped into his over-thinking brain he hadn't been able to push it away.

 _Would he ever come to love this Tom as he had loved the other?_

Merlin, his life was a right mess, just like it had always been. To delude himself into thinking otherwise was a downright folly. His life would always consist of a string of impossible questions and decisions, followed up by that inevitable disappointment.

Feeling his good mood from earlier all but vanish, Harry picked up his glass of whiskey and watched the amber liquid swirl as he contemplated on whether he should finish it and order another, or leave off the liquor altogether.

Then the door of the pub opened and shut once more, instantly drawing Harry's attention.

It wasn't Tom.

The uncomfortable tightening of his shoulders and core muscles were enough to convince Harry that another drink was just what the healer prescribed.

So, he was downing the rest of his drink with firm plans in mind of ordering them another round, when Death suddenly appeared next to him out of nowhere, making him choke on his last sip firewhiskey.

Alphard and Monty immediately turned to look at Harry with concerned faces, and Al quickly started worriedly rubbing and thumping Harry's on his back. Harry managed to rasp out a hasty, "I'm fine" through the burning in his throat. "Wrong pipe," he wheezed, trying not to wince.

Fleamont shot him a sceptical look but shrugged and went back to whatever he'd been ranting about. Alphard raised an amused brow before reluctantly turning back to half-listening to the Gryffindor sharing a booth with them, his arm once again resting on Harry's shoulder.

Harry turned his watery green gaze toward the uninvited guest for an explanation.

"They're coming, Harry. Five attacks on British soil, largest troop headed this way. There is going to be too much chaos, the Aurors won't make it here on time. I know you want to try and save everyone, but the students here need to be your priority. Get this village secured, now, or there'll be a lot of souls passing through to the other side today, and I'd really rather we avoid that if you don't mind," were the soothing words that greeted Harry.

Harry gave Death a sharp, searching look, quickly gauging if this was one of his sick jokes. It took him all of one second to realise that Death wasn't playing any games, and Harry was instantly more alert.

His back straightened and his shoulders tensed as he braced himself for the oncoming battle.

Harry hadn't even gotten to ask Death, 'who?' because the next second he felt them—multiple Apparitions into the village.

Grindelwald's men, Harry presumed. Who else?

Oh, bugger. Any second everything was going to go tits up.

Since Death wasn't allowed to directly intervene with the problems of the creatures of Earth, it would fall onto Harry to keep as many of these wizards and witches alive.

 _Terrific luck as per usual_.

"Alphard. Fleamont," Harry snapped authoritatively as his mind reeled with different solutions and repercussions.

Both Alphard and Monty turned to look at him with equally surprised and confused expressions, both eyeing their suddenly tense friend warily.

"I need you to listen to me very carefully," he ordered sharply. "This isn't a joke, and we don't have much time. The village is about to be under attack," he informed them, drawing two fearful gasps from his friends.

Harry didn't give them any time to ask questions. He turned his hard eyes on Alphard and started giving out instructions. "Al, I need you to secure the pub and make sure the kids here are safe."

The next second Harry jumped up onto the table.

"Harry, what are you talk-" Alphard started, but Harry quickly cut him off.

"Oi! Everyone listen up!" he hollered loudly to get the attention of everyone bustling about inside the busy pub. "If you all want to live, you have to stay the fuck inside the pub. Hogsmead is under attack!"

All the occupants of the dingy pub turned to look at him, and for a moment they just stared at him as if he were raving mad. Then the first screams started to sound from outside, and that promptly got them moving.

Everyone erupted into panicked confusion, but with one wave of his hand, Harry slammed the doors of the pub shut, once again rendering the entirety of the pub silent.

"Stay inside!" he ordered sharply, jumping off the table before turning to face Alphard. "Make sure you block the damn door, got it? No one but students get in through that door. Understood?"

Once Alphard gave him a wide-eyed nod Harry turned to look at Fleamont.

"Monty, I know this is a lot to ask, but you need to head to Honeydukes. Grab as many kids as possible on your way there, and try to get them through the secret passageway in the basement. We have to try to safely evacuate the village from as many students as possible. Single file exit. We can't afford for them to panic and trample all over each other. Use stinging hexes if needed."

Fleamont looked slightly sick and panicked at the prospect of going out to face several dark wizards and leading an evacuation, but a moment later his Gryffindor courage must have won over his fears because he gave Harry a quick assenting nod, hazel eyes shining resolutely.

Alphard's stomach dropped when he saw Harry about to leave with Fleamont, so he grabbed him roughly by the arm and pulled him back. "Where do you think you're going?" he hissed at him, ready to stop him from doing anything rash and foolish.

He really should have known better than to try and stop him.

Harry pried Alphard's fingers from around his arm and wrenched it out from his tight grip.

"I need to get to Orion and Lucretia. Your brother is also out there. I don't have time for this," he growled before he roughly grabbed Fleamont by his arm and silently disappeared from sight.

Harry dropped them both outside the doors of the Three Broomsticks and pushed Fleamont into the general direction of Honeydukes. "Go!" he screamed, and without another word Fleamont was running, sending a few Stunners and Leg Locks as he went.

Everything around Harry was in a state of pure chaos.

Villagers and students were running away screaming in all directions, shoving and crashing into each other as they tried to escape the dark-robed men that weren't shy about hurtling away brutal spells.

Some children were already on the ground with numerous different injuries. Harry could only hope that they weren't dead.

Then Harry felt several more men Apparating into the village. He managed to divert their entry to one location, far enough away from most of the students, but before he could do anymore, heavy anti-apparition wards snapped into place, together with a string of additional wards Harry didn't have time to decipher.

Splendid. Now he'd also have to deal with the reinforcements.

Close to him, Harry saw two fourth-year Ravenclaw students being levitated and flung into a wall. He managed to safely cushion their crash while disarming the two wizards that attacked them, who quickly found themselves stunned and tied in rope.

Without a glance back, Harry was off, looking for the troop of men he had just displaced.

He needed to go about this smartly.

He couldn't simply make all the bad wizards drop to the ground. While it was well within his capabilities, such a stunt would raise a lot of alarm bells he _so_ didn't need raising.

There was no way that he was going to give these people any reason to distrust him. He had plans, damn it! Plans that required a modicum of discretion.

Even so, aiming with a throng of wild and frightened students running in the way wasn't exactly a piece of cake, but he safely managed to take down four more of Grindelwald's men, with the fifth one following quickly behind.

Thankfully, not even a second after the fifth had hit the ground, Harry spotted Tom with Cygnus, Lestrange, and Malfoy in his company. They were trying to block off some thirty or so men from filtering into the village—though Harry suspected they were mostly defending themselves, and the blocking part was a mere consequence.

Orion was also close to what was now the front lines, protecting his sister and some injured looking third-year Slytherins.

It didn't escape Harry's notice how none of the other houses went to their aid. And they accused the house of serpents of being cowards. Where were all the other houses right now? Where was that Gryffindor courage and Hufflepuff loyalty?

In the blink of an eye, Harry was standing between all of them and Grindelwald's men, protective mother dragon that he was.

"Stay behind me," he bellowed, blocking a purple blood clotting curse that was headed Orion's way and barely escaping the acidic yellow hex flying past his own head.

"Harry!" Orion cried out chidingly, clearly wanting him to look out for his own hide. Harry didn't pay him any mind, not with more than thirty battle-seasoned men standing in front of him ready for war.

Thinking on his feet, Harry slid his wand into its holster and concentrated on the energy in the air in front of the troop of men. He twined his fingers together and took a precise and practised step forward before pushing out his joined palms, creating a blue blast that sent their enemy flying backwards rather violently.

With another intricate and practiced step forward, and a push of energy to the ground, a wall erected before them, serving as a barrier between them.

Orion whistled and whooped, while everyone else was struck silent.

"Move back," Harry ordered urgently, and once he heard their scrambling footsteps he erected another wall to buy them some more time.

Harry didn't dare take his eyes off the doubly reinforced wall. Any moment they would break through it.

"Is everyone alright?" he asked his weary house-mates.

"Peachy keen, Peverell," mumbled Lestrange shakily, seemingly the only one able to find his voice, besides Orion, who happily exclaimed, "That was absolutely fantastic, Harry! You're sooo going to teach me how to do that!"

Harry rolled his eyes and caught sight of Tom in his peripheral vision. His face was blank while he stared at Harry, and it just occurred to him that he was being rather quiet.

But he didn't have the time to wonder about it. He had a bone to pick with Death.

 _'I thought we were keeping tabs on Grindelwald!'_ Harry screamed in his mind, blasting open the mental connection between him and Death, knowing that his message would be received loud and clear. _'You know! Since we had the brilliant idea to use the name Peverell! We knew it would pique his curiosity. It's why we chose it, and it's also why we were meant to keep tabs on him. We were meant to be prepared for this_ _,_ _damn it!'  
_  
 _'I have been keeping tabs on him every day,'_ came Death's demurred defence a few moments later. _'I only missed one damn night, Harry. This wasn't a planned attack. We both know that he doesn't usually do spontaneous. This was one of those stupid and emotional split-second decisions! He was meant to attack a village in France a few days from now. Dementors were also a part of the plan,'_ he added.

Deciding that it was useless arguing about it right now, Harry growled deep in his chest and tried to calm himself.

 _'Scout the perimeter and asses_ _s_ _the situation. Alert me if any dementors arrive, and report back any further threats you see,'_ Harry commanded, completely immersing himself into warrior-mode.

Most of Grindelwald's men were all behind the now cracking and rattling wall, and with the wards they put up around the village, they couldn't apparate away and none could apparate in, unless… unless they were somehow keyed in…

 _Brilliant._ But that was an issue for later.

The first order of business would be getting Lucretia and the injured kids away to safety. Then he needed to keep on blocking Grindelwald's sycophants' path for as long as possible and shield a wide range of attacks that would most assuredly come once the wall was down.

No problemo.

Knowing that they only had a few more seconds left, Harry did something very rash and stupid and slit open both his palms with a swift one-fingered slashing motion, preparing himself to conjure the one shield that would keep the troop at bay for another couple of minutes, until some help might arrive. Though he doubted anyone would make it to them in time.

But he had to stall as long as he could. Taking out these men on his own was not keeping a low profile, and that's why he couldn't send his house-mates to safety. At least not all of them.

A runic dark shield was easier to explain away for now.

"While I'm quite positive that it's paralyzing fear and relief that's got you all stuck to your places, I'm rather grateful that you've not decided to flee yet," Harry commented in a rather blasé manner, pausing as a loud and powerful Bombardia was sent towards the wall from the other side, making them all wince and take a cautious step back.

Not too long now.

"They are soon going to blast through that wall, and we need to keep blocking their passage. If you're not up for it, leave now," he warned them, but none moved from their places.

"Lucretia, you need to take the children and run to Honeydukes. Fleamont is there leading students to safety," he called a little louder so that she could hear him, seeing as she was the furthest away from him. "We lads will do our best to hold them back."

Then his wall was tumbling down.

The men that Harry had taken by surprise were now back on their feet, looking mighty furious and ready for a fight.

"Let's see those impressive shields of yours, gentlemen!" Harry called out, and, unsurprisingly, all five of them followed his instructions.

Lucretia shot Harry a nervous look, wanting to stay behind and aid them, but she knew that these little Slytherins needed her help to get out of there. So she did as Hadrian asked of her and pulled up the two boys able to stand on their feet, and then picked up Isolde, who had a broken leg.

"Run, and be ready to shield yourselves," she told the crying boys, then they were off.

In the meantime, Harry dropped to his knees and heard Lestrange mumble a strangled, "What the bloody fuck," but Harry was a touch too busy to explain to his pea-sized brain how exactly it was that he was planning on saving their arses.

Which was by activating the unorthodox shield rune burned into his chest, of course.

As soon as his bloodied palms dug into the muddy ground beneath his feet, a murky green shield appeared in front of them, momentarily protecting them from the bloodhounds on the other side.

There. That should buy them some more time.

He heard Tom, Orion, and Malfoy gasp at the sight of his shield, presumably realising what type of runic blood shield he'd just conjured—or at least a close variant of it.

In any other situation, Harry might have preened proudly at their wide-eyed expressions, but not today. At least not right now.

"Alright, lads. You see any green curses passing through the shield, dodge! Now let's talk strategy," Harry snapped and rolled his shoulders back. "This pretty shield isn't going to last forever and the authorities are nowhere in sight. I get that this is bloody scary, but we have the opportunity of taking these fuckers down before they do any more damage. So suck it up!" he yelled encouragingly at his house-mates. "I need you all to prepare for battle, alright?" he asked them, as curses were repeatedly being flung at the surface of his shield, which rebounded the spells back towards their caster.

Orion was the first to step forward. "Right beside you, Harry," came the strong voice of his friend, filled with unrepentant loyalty. "Besides, Father would have my hide if I left you to die," he winked.

Harry smirked and gave him a grateful nod.

Tom moved for the first time since he had dropped his shield charm and huffed loudly. "As if I'd trust you two to take them on by yourselves," he drawled lazily.

Harry's smirk grew, and he couldn't help but chuckle. "Never doubted you, Tom."

After a small pause, Lestrange stepped forward. "You're absolutely nutters, Peverell. But I've got your back," came the surprisingly earnest vow.

Malfoy and Cygnus looked a bit warier but they also gave Harry a firm nod.

"Well, aren't we Slytherins all brave-" he started to say but was cut off by a painful shock up his spine, involuntarily making him screw his eyes shut. Their enemy's attacks were becoming more vicious by the second.

"Harry!" Orion screamed in panic, but Harry managed to shake his head.

"Our aim is to disarm and stun as many of them as we can. Curses and hexes will take too much energy from you," Harry advised them through the blinding pain he was feeling. The blood shield he was using wasn't exactly fluffy white magic.

He would have said something more if the group of men in front of him hadn't decided to send a stunner at his shield—simultaneously.

His palms were burning, and the rune on his chest had already scorched through his shirt and robes.

Before he could shout out the plan he'd formulated in his mind, the absolute last creature he wanted to see appeared kneeling next to him.

That could only mean bad news.

"Dementors, Harry. They are coming from the direction of the Forbidden Forest," Death informed him, frowning disapprovingly at the blood shield, but wisely keeping his mouth shut.

"Fuck," Harry swore. "Buggering fucking shit," he cursed as he struggled to hold up the shield.

Save the students or save his discretion?

Sometimes Harry hated being such a do-gooder.

"Change of plans, Malfoy. Dementors are coming our way from the other side, so you better be capable of an O-worthy Patronus. I need you to establish a perimeter and fight them off as best as you can until I'm done here, or else they will trap us," he ordered him urgently. "Lestrange, Cygnus, Orion, go with him-"

"I'm not leaving your bloody side-" Orion tried to protest vehemently, but stopped short when Harry sent him a terrifying glare over his shoulders.

"I told you to fucking go with Malfoy, Orion. That's non-negotiable. There are still a lot of injured and scared children running around, and they are going to need someone to protect them."

When Orion still looked uncertain, Harry's emerald eyes flashed black in warning. "Go, Orion!" he bellowed authoritatively. "Riddle and I have this. Right, Riddle?" Harry asked, risking a quick glance at the stoic boy clutching his wand tightly in his right hand.

"We have this," Tom agreed with a determined gleam in his eyes, adrenalin burning through his blood.

"Harry, you need to let go of that shield right now, or you're going to burn with it," Death warned him when he noticed black flames starting to lick up from the bottom of the murky pale green shield.

"Go," Harry grunted. "I have to drop the shield. You've got exactly five seconds," he warned them, and without another word of protest, the four of them left to fend off the dementors.

Harry made sure that they had safely rounded the corner before he retracted his hands from the muddy ground. He slid out his wand and waved it in a long, horizontal motion, creating a widespread Disillusionment that hid the whole street they were on from the view of the other students and villagers.

"It's only you and me now, Riddle," Harry told him, and in the next instant, Harry was on his feet deflecting what looked like a triple X restricted bone-breaker. "You better be in top form, Riddle, because we're about to get the work out of our lives," he quipped lightly, before rushing into the fray.

Tom didn't say anything, every one of his senses on alert as he dodged and shielded himself from hexes and curses coming from every direction. He'd counted thirty-two opponents. Thirty-two opponents, that, judging by the dark and restricted curses they were flinging over their heads, appeared to have no qualms with killing them.

He still couldn't quite believe that he found himself thrust into this life-threatening situation.

The only reason Tom had been in the middle of the battlefield was a severe case of wrong-place-wrong-time. He'd been on his way to the Three Broomsticks when he and his housemates got attacked by a bunch of Grindelwald's men. He hadn't been there out of a sense of duty to his peers, just pure bad luck on his end.

If it were anyone other then Peverell next to him, he would have taken the opportunity to flee the scene. He had self-preservation you see, or at least, he'd once believed he did.  
He'd been ready to do just that, flee the battle, when the heroic and dim-witted wizard had Apparated in front of them, ensuring the loss of all his mental faculties.

The thought of Hadrian putting himself in harm's way had set the hairs at the back of Tom's neck on edge and caused the most nauseating bile to churn in his stomach.

Worry was not an emotion he usually feels for anyone other than himself, but here he was, yet again making an exception for Hadrian.

He couldn't very well leave Hadrian to fight them off all on his own, could he? No, he couldn't do that, even though his answer should always be a resounding _yes_. Especially with the odds scaled against their favour, or perhaps that would have been true if Hadrian wasn't—well, if he wasn't Hadrian.

Tom couldn't help but marvel at the way Hadrian cut through their attacks like an avenging hellhound, slicing through them like they were nothing but waves crashing against his skin.

His spellmanship was a weave of elegant and flawless art. He never restricted himself to any area of magic, using what seemed to be an expansive and creative repertoire of spells.

As Tom watched him swivel and do a backflip to avoid an electric blue spell, he couldn't help but think that Hadrian was toying with them. The exuberant grin he was wearing didn't do much to change the impression he was getting.

Then, all of a sudden, Hadrian transfigured a few leaves lying on the ground into mirrors and charmed them to form a dome around the troop of men, caging them in.

Salazar! The amount of control it must have taken to pull off a neat trick like that... and he made it look like it was mere child's play. Sure, they blasted their way through a moment later, but they got a few nasty cuts on their way out.

A rather large and burly looking man didn't seem too impressed by Harry's display, and swiftly sent a killing curse Hadrian's way, who looked very much unconcerned, while Tom felt his own heart jump into his throat.

Harry smirked and stomped his right foot in front of him, raising the ground to form a solid wall before him, easily guarding himself against the deadly green curse. He even had the gall to peek around the narrow wall and teasingly wave at the furious wizard.

Next, Harry conjured hundreds of ravens which immediately started attacking their enemy. It served as a good distraction for Harry and Tom to take down the ten men in the front. They quickly dropped to the ground, stunned and bound with unbreakable rope.

While the other wizards tried to fend off the malicious ravens, Tom saw Hadrian chant under his breath, which was unusual since he always seemed to use non-verbal spells.

Five seconds later, nearly all the men in front of them were screaming out in utter horror, battling invisible demons. It presented them with the perfect opportunity to take down twelve more men who fell into a heap on the ground, disarmed and completely defenceless.

Harry was mildly impressed. Those men still standing had managed to fight through one of Harry's own creations. The curse was meant for a mass of people to hallucinate their worst nightmares. Only those with strong Occlumency shields were able to ignore the phantom images their minds viciously displayed before them.

There were only ten dark-robed men left standing when the terrified screams of the other students reached Tom and Harry's ears, indicating the arrival of the Dementors.

Unfortunately, it served as enough of a distraction for Tom's left elbow to get hit with a bone breaker. He couldn't help the scream that tore from his lugs as he felt his entire lower arm breaking in several different places. Even his fingers were twisting in odd directions.

"Tom!" Harry cried, his eyes flashing a brilliant shade of green as they were consumed by a burning fury.

With a series of hand movements, Harry had the ground beneath Grindelwald's men's feet shaking and cracking open. Seven of them fell screaming through the deep crack while the other three charged forward and barely managed to dodge the lightning that came thundering down around them.

The next second, one of them hurled a killing curse which was headed straight towards Tom.

"NO!" Harry roared from deep within his chest, and before he knew what he was doing he Apparated in front of Tom to stand between him and the green curse.

Startled by Harry's scream, Tom snapped open his eyes just in time to see the killing curse flying his way. There was no time for him to try and conjure anything to shield himself—there was no time for him to dodge. All he could do was squeeze his eyes shut and wait for the impact which never came.

When Tom noticed that he was still breathing, he also took note of the strong arms wrapped tightly around him. With his heart pounding in his ears, Tom quickly opened his eyes again and instantly locked them onto Harry's enraged and hysterical gaze.

Tom heard the three wizards gasp at the fact that Hadrian wasn't a corpse on the ground, but Tom didn't gasp—he was too shocked for his body to be able to do anything but stand there, breathless in a mixture of horror and disbelief.

Before Tom could even articulate one full question in his head, Hadrian let go of him and turned back to the terrified looking men.

 _'That was a fucking stupid thing to do, Harry,'_ came the unnecessary criticism from Death in his head. _'You really couldn't have thought of another way to save him?'_

 _'It was bloody instinct, Death,'_ he growled back in his mind. _'Now bugger off. I've got these pricks to deal with.'_

Now, since these three gentlemen had seen something they really shouldn't have, Harry had no choice but to dispose of them in a more permanent manner than he'd done their colleagues.

Not that he had any qualms whatsoever in setting those disgusting rats on fire.

"Sorry lads, but I've got no time to dance. Got a cold date with some dementors, you see. I'll be sure to send them your regards," Harry smirked vindictively, and one hand twist later they were burning up in deep purple flames.

A few beats of complete silence passed between Harry and Tom as they watched the three screaming bodies quickly turn into ash in the wind.

Tom knew that he should've felt disturbed at the easy and cruel approach Hadrian took to murdering those men. He knew that were he anyone else he'd be trembling in shock, probably traumatised for life. But all he felt was fascination and a deep sense of gratification at the knowledge of how ruthless Hadrian could be.

The fact that Tom's possible demise could arouse such an intense reaction from Hadrian sent a spike of fierce possessiveness through him.

Hadrian had jumped in front of the killing curse for him.

A moment later that thought had Tom's eyes widening as full comprehension of what just happened finally sank into his slow brain.

Hadrian had taken the Avada Kedavra and was somehow still breathing. He'd done what no one before him had ever been able to do—something that was said to be impossible.

He couldn't have...but there really was no mistaking the telling acidic hue of the killing curse.

"What the bloody hell are you?" Tom murmured from behind him, awe shining brightly in his grey eyes.

Before Harry could even think of replying, another scream sounded in the air. A desperate shriek that sounded immensely like Hadrian's name and could only belong to one person.

Lucretia.

Without another thought, Harry took off in a sprint, jumping over bound bodies as he went. Once again he was pushing through streams of students and villagers that still remained in the streets.

Why the fuck weren't these people all safely locked away behind barricaded doors? Why weren't these students on their way out through the secret passageway?

At least Malfoy had secured the perimeter as he'd asked of him, with some of the older students capable of producing any form of Patronus. Mostly Harry saw mist, but there was a rabbit, owl, and kangaroo that he could make out. But even their protection was dwindling away.

Orion was already on his knees with three dementors swarming him, trying to suck out his soul. Some other students were in a similar position.

"Harry!" he heard Lucretia scream again, spurring him from the momentary terror he felt at the scene.

Harry Apparated next to Orion, protecting him from the onslaught of dark-cloaked creatures. His Patronus immediately appeared at his side, sending the nearest dementors fleeing. His dragon spread it's enormous wings, proudly protecting him, Lucretia, and Orion, who was now sprawled unconscious at his side.

At the sight of his Patronus, the other students staggered in relief—barely registering its majestic form—only glad they didn't have to fend off the Dementors alone anymore. Most of them fell to the ground unconscious, but Malfoy and two seventh-year Gryffindors managed to keep up their Patronus.

"Leave," Harry growled to the rest of the swarming Dementors, making the dragon at his side roar. The dementors screeched and quickly took flight.

Once he was sure that the dementors had all left, Harry released his Patronus, feeling thoroughly drained.

He took a moment to assess the damage around him and sighed. Several children looked injured, many more were unconscious. But hopefully, none were dead, and the worst of it behind them.

But if that's true then why hadn't the anti-apparition wards dropped?

That thought had him instantly back on alert.

Why were they still up? Where were the Aurors and Professors?

Harry turned to Lucretia, who was now kneeling next to her brother, looking unharmed. Cygnus had joined her, and besides a few scratches, also seemed in perfect health.

Harry rolled his shoulders back and cracked his neck before he placed a powerful Feather-light charm on Orion.

"You need to get to Honeydukes now, Lucretia. Cygnus, help her carry Orion and get as many people as you can to go with you," he ordered them firmly as his eyes swept over the area.

"Harry?" Lucretia asked him with a small trembling voice.

"Don't ask too many questions, Cretia love. All I know is that this isn't over yet and that you all need to get out of here before more men come marching in."

"Come on, Lucretia," Cygnus urged her as he took an anxious look around them.

"What about you, Harry?" she asked him, concern shining brightly in her beautiful eyes.

"I'll be fine," he smirked, hoping it would ease her fears. "You make sure that your brother and cousin get somewhere safe." She gave an unsure nod but knew he was right. She had to make sure her family was safe.

"Be careful," she whispered, before swinging one of Orion's arms around her shoulder while Cygnus took the other. With one last distressed look back, they left, trying to get as many people's attention on her way as they could.

"Malfoy! Lestrange!" He bellowed, turning around to face their eagle spread forms on the ground. "Follow Lucretia and Cygnus, and help them get as many people off the streets as you can. Prevent anyone who tries from going up to the castle. We don't know if there are men hiding there, and there are some serious wards around the village," he warned them.

With two simultaneous nods, they got to their shaky feet and did as was ordered of them.

Next, Harry's eyes searched for the one person he needed to reassure himself was safe—and finally, he caught sight of him jogging his way, not looking too bothered by his left arm which dangled oddly at his side.

Numbing charm, Harry assumed. He doubted it would last very long.

"Hadrian!" he exclaimed with evident relief and came to an abrupt halt a foot away from him. He bent forward and rested his arms on his knees, completely out of breath.

Through many short gasps, Tom managed to rasp out, "I found a fifth-year Hufflepuff slumped against a wall on my way here. There is something wrong with her lungs. I think a rib might have punctured it. I don't know how long she'll make it…" he trailed off. "And where the hell are the Professors and the Headmaster? We could have really used their help fifteen minutes ago. And don't we have Aurors to deal with this kind of situation?" he criticised venomously.

"There are some heavily complex wards placed around the village, Tom. They probably took out any attending faculty members before the ambush started, but I can feel the Headmaster and Dumbledore trying to break through the wards as we speak," Harry informed him reassuringly.

Sure, he could have taken the wards down himself, but he thought that he already had more than enough to explain. Any more feats of great magic and all his carefully laid plans would be ruined. In fact, he still hadn't decided if he wanted to obliviate Tom seeing him take the killing curse for him. But that was a problem for later.

"Take me to the girl, Tom. I'll try to help her as best as I can." Tom nodded his head and was about to lead the way when Harry suddenly caught sight of Fleamont running their way. "Harry!" he yelled to get his attention even though he was now only a hair's breadth away from him.

Harry motioned for Tom to wait before turning around to face Fleamont. "Why aren't you getting people through the tunnel, Potter?" he snapped at him. "Most students should have already gone through by now."

"Can't get through," Fleamont managed to gasp between deep lungfuls of breath. "There seems to be a ward blocking us. I've got two seriously injured students because of it. Blasted them twenty feet back."

"Fuck," Harry cursed, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "We're caged in here," he suddenly realised.

"That's why I came to find you. There is no way out of Hogsmeade, Harry. Anyone that tried bypassing the wards was repelled," he told him, unable to keep the fear out of his voice.

Smart man, he knew it wasn't over yet.

What the fuck did Grindelwald have planned?

"How injured?" he asked him, looking sideways at Tom who was waiting impatiently.

"Peverell," Tom intoned warningly. The girl didn't have much time left.

"Nothing a few sixth and seventh-years can't handle," Fleamont reassured.

"Good, then get everyone the fuck inside. I don't want to see anyone out on the streets. Make people carry their schoolmates. Ward all the doors with your best standing students. Give everyone affected by the Dementors some chocolate. It'll help, trust me." he told him when his grandfather shot him a bewildered look.

"Peverell!" snapped Tom, and Harry gave him a quick nod.

"Stay safe, Fleamont. And be ready for anything," he warned before taking off after Tom.

 _'Death!'_ he mentally projected. _'I need you to find out what the hell is happening! Like, right the fuck now!'_

 _'I can see the Headmaster with Dumbledore and some Aurors. They are working on taking down the wards, but there is no sign of Grindelwald or any more of his men.'  
_  
 _'This doesn't add up, Death. Find Grindelwald and get me his fucking plan,'_ Harry snapped as he jumped over one of the men he had bound. _'There must be a reason why he would cage more than half the school in this fucking village. Find out what before it's too late.'_

As Harry rounded the last corner, he saw Tom standing next to a blonde girl lying on her back whose face was turning an unhealthy shade of purple. She had tears streaming down her face and looked to be in an unbearable amount of pain.

He closed the distance between them and skidded to his knees next to her.

"Don't worry," he whispered reassuringly, wiping her hair from her face. "I'll make the pain go away," he promised before sending her into a fitful sleep.

Harry closed his eyes and placed a hand over her ribs, trying to feel the exact location which was damaged. Once he managed to locate the broken bone, he slipped his wand from his holster and pointed it at the afflicted spot. Within seconds the broken bone was repaired, together with her punctured lung.

"So you're a healer as well as impervious to the killing curse?" Tom couldn't help but ask when he saw the unconscious girl take in her first easy breath of air, trying to ignore the fact that his numbing spell was wearing off too quickly.

Harry snapped his eyes towards Tom from where he was still crouched down, and narrowed them warningly. In an instant, Harry was back on his feet and closing the distance between him and Tom. He barely managed to restrain himself from grabbing him by the collar of his robes. "Don't ever mention that in public again," he growled threateningly, sending an unpleasant shiver down Tom's spine.

Taken aback by the sudden hostility, all Tom could do was nod his head, the fact that he just took down more than thirty trained men still fresh in his mind. "We understand each other, then. Good. Now turn around and let me look at your arm," he ordered brusquely.

Tom was about to protest, but at that exact moment, he had to squeeze his eyes shut as the numbing spell wore off and an intense pain spread up from his elbow to his shoulder. He could feel the curse slowly crawling to his chest, causing hairline fractures as it went. Tom figured that this wasn't the time to play at being modest and humble.

Resigned, Tom turned so that Hadrian could try and mend his shattered left arm.

"Fuck," he heard Harry mumble once he was done with a series of diagnostic spells.

"What is it?" Tom asked him frantically, not feeling particularly reassured by that exclamation.

"It's nothing," Harry said hastily without looking away from Tom's arm. "It's just more complicated than I thought it would be," he sighed and grimaced. "Right. I'm going to need you to sit down and bite down on your sleeve, Tom. We can't wait to get to the infirmary for potions because if I don't fix this now…" he trailed off wincing.

"Just do what you have to do, Hadrian," Tom groaned out through his pain. He braced himself against the wall behind him and slid down to the ground. Grabbing his right sleeve with his teeth, he then nodded his consent for Harry to continue.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered, and then there was nothing but searing pain for Tom. His vision went dark as piece after piece the bones snapped back into place. He could feel each torn muscle healing itself in a rush of fire until finally the pain was gone.

Tom spat out his sleeve and moaned out in relief as he opened his blurry eyes. "Thank you," he croaked out to a gasping and pale-faced Hadrian, wincing at the burning in his throat. Had he screamed?

"No problem, Tom," he murmured tiredly, suddenly feeling very much his age. "I'm just going to…" he trailed off before abruptly sprawling himself down on the floor next to Tom. "Just for a few seconds," he murmured, allowing his eyes to drift shut.

 _'I apologise if I'm interrupting tea-time, but I've got something you're not going to like, Harry,'_ he suddenly heard Death's frantic voice in his head.

 _'Naturally,'_ he groaned despondently, letting his head fall back against the wall. He'd really been hoping that for once he'd be wrong because he could seriously go for a small kip right about then.

 _'Grindelwald is determined to blow this whole place up. He's placed three muggle bombs around the village, set to detonate in five minutes and thirty-seven, thirty-six, and counting.'  
_  
Forgetting himself, Harry sat up from his hunched position. "Excuse me?!" he exclaimed out loud, no longer feeling tired as a new rush of adrenaline shot through his veins. _'There are over forty of his men in here with us! He's not actually going to try to blow us all up, is he?'_

 _'The Dark Lord probably thinks it's for the best. It's not good for him to have so many of his men captured. A few of them are bound to talk eventually.'_

"Peverell?" Tom asked him cautiously, turning around to face him, but Harry was focused on Death and already getting up to his feet.

 _'I managed to pluck the memory of a map from one of Grindelwald's generals,'_ he told him, flashing through the image of said map. _'I think we can go ahead and assume that the three spots on the map marked with a red X are the locations of the highly explosive Nazi bombs. And, Harry—'_ he paused and sighed. _'Not that we didn't already assume so, but this whole attack was a test for you. He wants to get rid of you, and if you show yourself resourceful and survive, recruit you. The wards and the other four attacks were a distraction so that no one would be able to come to your aid."'_

Harry had thought as much. He felt too much like a mouse trapped in a cage.

Harry really wanted to snap something sarcastic back at Death, but by now Tom was pulling at the sleeve of his robes, trying to get his attention.

"Hadrian! Talk to me!" he exclaimed, ready to slap him back into reality.

"Tom! Do you remember that somewhat greyish-area shield we talked about on our first tutoring session? The one that's theoretically meant to protect you from a non-magical explosion?"

Seeing how distressed Hadrian looked, Tom promptly nodded his head.

"In five minutes I want you to bring that shield up, understood?" he asked him firmly.

"What's go-" Tom began to ask but was quickly cut off.

"You don't have to know the details, Tom. You just have to trust me. What I'm asking you to do is merely a precaution. Hopefully, I'll be able to get to the bombs in time."

"Bombs?" Tom gulped at the mention of those abominations. He couldn't possibly mean that there were muggle bombs hidden in the village?

Harry swore and quickly grabbed Tom's face between his hands. "The shield, Tom. Can you do it?" he asked him seriously.

 _'Time isn't our friend right now, Harry,'_ came Death's urgent warning.

Tom looked directly into Harry's worried emerald eyes and steeled himself. Harry needed to get this done. He couldn't be worrying about Tom right now so he wouldn't give him a reason to.

"Yes," he told him resolutely.

"Good," Harry whispered, relieved, and placed a quick kiss to his forehead.

Tom gasped at the contact and couldn't stop his eyes from fluttering shut. Before he could tell him to stay safe, Hadrian was gone.

* * *

"How much are you willing to bet that there are anti-vanishing wards around the bombs?" Harry asked Death as he rummaged through a bunch of bushes looking for the blasted bomb as located on the map.

"The existence of the human race," came the muttered reply from next to him.

A few meters later Harry heard the telling beeping sound of a bomb nearby and quickly hurried to follow it to his target. And there it was, not so innocently lying around.

He immediately tried to vanish it with a wave of his hand, but sure enough, there it still was, lying between the bushes and emitting that irritating beeping sound.

"Bugger," Harry whined unattractively.

"If you use any more magic on that thing it'll-"

"I know. _Kaboom_ ," Harry grumbled. "I'm just going to have to do this the muggle way, then," he said, not sounding too confident in his abilities. And since it's been around three-hundred years since he had last played around with one of these things, no one could really blame him.

Harry took a deep, steadying breath and crouched down next to it. Slowly he removed the shell to get to the timer and found a lot of pretty coloured wires underneath.

"You don't happen to remember which colour I need to cut first, do you?" Harry asked Death as he conjured himself a pair of small cutters. When the only answer that greeted him was silence, he sighed and mumbled, "Forget I even asked."

"Less than three minutes," came Death's ever-helpful reply as he sceptically eyed Harry and the bomb.

"Just shut the fuck up," Harry snapped, trying to ignore the sweat that had gathered on his brows. He focused on the task at hand and dug deep into his memories.

"Blue, green, red, brown, yellow… so many damned colours," he growled. "Right, got to be this one," he mumbled before going ahead and cutting through the wire.

When nothing happened, he breathed out a sigh of relief. Feeling much more confident, he cut off the next two, successfully disabling the timer.

"Brilliant, Harry. Only two more to go," Death cheered. Harry thought that sarcasm wasn't necessarily appropriate right now.

The next bomb was found behind a tree in a villager's garden. Harry was just grateful they weren't more creative with their hiding location.

"Right, then. Where is the next one hidden, Death?" he asked him as he tried to wipe away the sweat from his face, only succeeding in smearing it with mud and blood.

Death nervously cleared his throat before saying ever so cryptically. "We should have really taken a moment to look at this more closely before we started."

"Where?" Harry demanded, already fearing the worst.

"It's somewhere in the Three Broomsticks," he informed him, and in a blink, Harry was gone.

Once he appeared into the pub, he instantly had several wands pointed at him.

At least they were being vigilant, Harry gulped, going cross-eyed as one of the wands came particularly close to his handsome face.

"Lower your wands!" Harry heard Alphard command from the back of the room. "It's Hadrian!" he exclaimed when no one seemed to budge.

At that, all the wands were quickly lowered to the ground.

"What's going on, Harry? Are you alright? It looks like the battle is over, but Fleamont came by and told us that we can't get out of the village. He said to stay put."

 _'Less than two minutes, Harry,'_ Death warned him, and with that Harry jumped up onto one of the tables, startling most of the occupants of the pub.

"Alright you guys, listen up! I need you all to be silent and listen closely to your surroundings. When someone locates an unusual beeping noise, holler!"

Looking confused at his request, they warily began listening around them, and not ten seconds later a fourth-year Gryffindor screamed out, "Here, Peverell! There is something behind our booth."

"Out of the way!" he barked as he jumped off the table. Everyone quickly moved to the side as commanded, shoving each other out of the way.

Harry waved his hand to disable the Disillusion charm on the bomb, and once his wild green eyes caught sight of it he turned ashen-faced.

Runes. Several complicated curse runes.

"Buggering fucking fuck. Oh, Merlin's saggy balls. Fuck!" he muttered wide-eyed at the contraption.

"EVERYONE GET THE FUCK OUT OF THIS PUB AND RUN!" he bellowed.

Not needed to be told twice, everyone started rushing for the door, and not necessarily in a calm and orderly fashion.

"Harry! What's going on?!" Of course Alphard wouldn't listen to him.

"Get the hell out of here, Black! This place is about to blow up!" he warned him as he concentrated on the runes in front of him.

"Then what the hell are you still doing in here?" Alphard asked him frantically, going to grab him by his shirt to drag him out, but Harry savagely shrugged him off.

"This thing is about as nuclear as it gets when nuclear is three sodding years away from being invented, Alphard! I need to fucking try and contain the blast before it massacres the whole village and surrounding area. Leave!"

"Then we'll just blow up together because I'm not leaving you here alone," Alphard insisted stubbornly. Any other moment Harry would have thought that it was such a sweet thing to say, but today he turned his fiery emerald eyes towards Alphard before forcefully unclenching his fist and sending Alphard flying backwards towards the door.

"I can't die, you imbecile! But you can! So get the hell out!" he screamed, before magically shoving him out the rest of the way.

 _'Twenty-seven seconds.'_

 _'I've got this,'_ Harry growled. He knew he wasn't going to be able to prevent the explosion, but he could contain it considerably if he got the runes off.

One after another they fell away uselessly beneath Harry's practised fingers, and just in time, Harry managed to raise an impressive shield around the bomb before he found himself flung through the walls of the pub and crashing harshly into the gravel road outside.

His ears were ringing, and he was having trouble keeping his eyes open, but at least he was still breathing. No temporary trips to the in-between. That was good. That was very good. Much less to explain this way, he thought dazedly as he lay unmoving on his back.

At least it should all be over now, he sighed.

"Not that I don't think that you deserve a little lie-down, Harry, but you might want to take a moment to look around you," Death told him, his tone cold and clipped.

As he tried to pick up his head up from the floor Harry grunted in pain and quickly decided that it was much too stressful and simply peeked through his left eye.

In a flash, he was on his feet, and that was something he really should _not_ have done.

His back must be on fire, it must be, there was no other explanation for the agonising pain he felt shooting up his back, pain that caused his knees to buckle and forced his breath to constrict in his chest.

The only thing holding him up was his instinctive magic, but even that was depleting rapidly in strength.

He was fucked. Not only because of his injuries—those were the least of his worries, really—but he was thoroughly and irrevocably fucked because he was surrounded on all sides by twenty of Grindelwald's men, each of them holding one of his classmates hostage. Directly in front of him stood Gellert Grindelwald himself, pointing his wand threateningly at Alphard's throat.

They must have been keyed into the wards and gotten through while he was working on the runes.

So, the later-issue had become a... well, it had become a now-issue.

Bugger him to the 1940s and back… Oh, that's right. He was already living in the time period of his nightmares.

"Can I just say that you're a very remarkable young man?" It was obviously Grindelwald that broke the silence. Harry was still reeling from the explosion that flung him through a brick wall and the fact that he was being confronted by the Dark Lord while he had absolutely no control over his bodily or mental functions. "So much more remarkable than was reported back to me," he continued, sounding plenty dismayed at his followers' shortcomings.

Harry really wanted to say something to the prick, but his vocal cords weren't functioning, which was probably due to the severe concussion he was sporting. So he had to settle with sending the man his best glare.

"You almost single-handedly took down more than forty of my men, sent my dementors fleeing, and also managed to disarm the lovely German gifts I left lying around. On top of that, you were hurtled through a brick wall after breaking through my curse runes. Yet even after all that, here you are, still standing in front of me. You'd probably even manage to duel me for a few minutes, wouldn't you, Hadrian Peverell?" he asked him curiously, with a soft and velvety voice that shouldn't belong to a monster like him.

 _'Why exactly am I not sending this motherfucker into an early grave?'_ he asked Death in his head.

 _'You mean besides the fact that Dumbledore would be heartbroken? It'd ruin those carefully laid plans of yours, Harry. And while I think you're an amazing wizard, you don't have enough juice left to fight off all of them. You do realise that your last bit of magic is the only thing keeping you conscious and standing, right? You're about to drop.'_

"While I'm flattered that a great and powerful Dark Lord such as yourself knows who I am, I'd rather skip to the part where you let go of my friends, we fight, and you flee," he managed to say, very proud of the fact that his voice came out strong and steady.

 _'You really need to learn when to hold your tongue, Harry,'_ Death sighed, shaking his head.

Grindelwald chuckled at Harry's cheek, and then took a moment to roam his blue eyes over his form, and while being appraised Harry saw a glint in those cold blue eyes that was a tad too familiar.

"It would be such a shame to dispose of a fine young man such as yourself. You would be greatly valued at my side, Hadrian. I'll take you further than you ever dreamed of going," he tried to tempt him.

"My apologies, Gellert, my man, but I'm not much of a follower-type. Not really my style, you see," Harry shrugged, desperately holding back his wince at the painful movement. 'Show no weakness' and all that rot, but that didn't mean he wasn't painfully aware of the torn-up skin on his back, or the fact that his head was cracked open.

Thankfully, right then, he felt the wards around the village break, and not a moment later Dumbledore was at his side with his wand pointed at Grindelwald. Not that he could do much since Grindelwald was still using Alphard as a shield.

"I'll let you live for today, Hadrian James Peverell. You, too, Albus," Grindelwald smirked, finally prying his eyes off Harry to look at his former lover to send him a wink. "Until we meet again," he said, and then they were all gone in a series of loud cracks.

"About fucking time you got here, Dumbledore," Harry slurred before his world went blissfully dark.

* * *

Hi everyone!

If you're wondering why this chapter doesn't seem at all new to you, it's because it's not. I've edited all the previous chapters I've posted and added quite a deal to them, and with the help of my awesome beta King'OMalley the number of mistakes throughout the story has been reduced. Apologies for any mistakes we've missed, but I hope that now everything flows a bit better.

If you've skipped ahead to this chapter I'd recommend going back to the start because there are quite a few scenes I've added.

Anyways, thanks for reading everyone. I would really appreciate any thoughts you might have on the newer version of Son of Magic.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

 **27th November, 1941**

 **Hospital Wing,** **Hogwarts**

Pandemonium—that appropriately described the present state of Hogwart's Hospital Wing.

It was probably safe to say that it had been decades since the Hospital Wing had seen so many students rushed in at once. In fact, Headmaster Dippet had to expand the wing to twice its regular size to accommodate all students and Hogsmeade villagers in need of medical assistance.

It was plain to see that Hogwarts hadn't been prepared for its students to be attacked, which, in hindsight, was rather careless and foolish of the Headmaster and the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Considering the recent calamity outside of Hogwarts' walls it was awfully arrogant to assume that Hogwarts, wouldn't, at some point, be drawn into the war, especially with the recent attack on Beauxbatons.

Headmaster Dippit could have, at the very least, had the foresight to employ another matron. But the stingy bastard was probably more concerned with the school's budget.

Now, due to his own oversight, Headmaster Dippet was left with a Hospital Wing filled with injured students and barely any idea how to proceed.

Several students were crying out in various degrees of pain, while others shed concerned tears over the unconscious bodies of their partners and comrades. Then there were some sat silent and unmoving, their bodies stiff and locked in shock with the trauma they'd just experienced.

All the Professors and some older students were doing their best to help the injured since the only employed matron currently had her hands full with the most grievously injured student—Hadrian James Peverell.

Many students and villagers were injured, but none were fighting for their lives as Hadrian was. He was the only reported _'possible casualty'_ of the attack.

It seemed unjust that it was Hadrian who was fighting for his life when he was the only reason why none of the other students had become _'possible casualties'_ or even _'deceased'_.

It wasn't right. Hadrian didn't deserve to be unconscious with his life hanging on a delicate thread.

Not Hadrian.

Not Hadrian, who had worn the most exuberant expression on his face while taking down thirty-two men without breaking a single sweat.

Hadrian, who had saved Tom's life at the risk of his neck.

Hadrian, who had conjured the most magnificent Patronus ever heard of, sending the Dementors fleeing with their tails between their legs.

Hadrian, beautiful Hadrian who had such potential and was brimming with power.

He couldn't _die_. He simply couldn't. Tom won't allow it.

But what could he do? What could _he_ do?

Nothing—he could do absolutely _nothing_ to help him.

The helplessness Tom felt as he watched Hadrian's frail body hovering over the hospital bed was almost too much to bear.

Tom was no stranger to helplessness. He'd felt it before—that rising panic one feels the moment they realise that there was nothing they could do to protect themselves. He had felt it often enough before he'd learned how to control his magic to fend off the bullies at the orphanage. He'd also felt that same helplessness for the whole duration of his first year at Hogwarts—before he had gained the respect of his peers. But it was still a confusing concept to Tom when associated with another person.

Why did he feel this all-consuming worry clawing at his chest, and that restless urge to do something to relieve Hadrian of his pain?

In any other circumstances, he might have found it was almost fascinating to dissect the reason behind why Hadrian's wellbeing incited an even stronger sense of helplessness in him than he'd ever been capable of conjuring for himself, but at that moment, mingled with distress, all he felt was frustration and anger—at himself, at Lord Grindelwald, at the Headmaster, at the Ministry, at the whole world—for allowing this to happen to Hadrian.

He wasn't in control of his emotions, and if there was one thing Tom prided himself in, it was the impeccable control he usually had over his emotions.

He'd have understood if he felt some disappointment and concern. After all, Tom had accepted his fascination with Hadrian and his desire to possess him, which would make it reasonable enough for him not to want to lose Hadrian before he'd even obtained him. But what he felt was more than mere dismay at the possibility of losing an invaluable asset.

He felt too much—too many different emotions—and much too strongly.

He wanted revenge.

Tom had never bought into the propaganda that Grindelwald was trying to sell. He never felt more than slight annoyance and a healthy dose of respect towards the man that inspired so much fear among the masses.

That all changed when he saw Hadrian tumble lifelessly to the ground.

Now all Tom felt for the man responsible for Hadrian's injuries was contempt.

Never before had he felt such a powerful urge to maim and destroy. His magic was buzzing painfully beneath his skin, coaxing him to find Grindelwald and savagely rip out his spleen before strangling him with his own intestines.

Hating Grindelwald with every fibre of his being and visualising his demise was easy, simpler than blaming himself and wondering if he'd have been able to change things if he'd hadn't acted like a bloody coward.

He'd fought off a small army of wizards alongside Hadrian, but at the mention of those muggle bombs, he froze in terror. At that moment, he'd been transported back to muggle London, and he'd forgotten that he was a formidable fourteen-year-old allowed to use magic. He'd forgotten that he wasn't defenceless.

What had Lord Grindelwald been thinking, using muggle inventions in his attack? Any respect he might have had left for Grindelwald got destroyed because of that.

On his way to the explosion site, Tom had seen some students rushing past him desperately in search of a place to hide.

His heart had dropped to his stomach, dreading what he'd find waiting for him, and as he reached the last corner, without him meaning to, his feet had slowed down.

It was a good thing that he'd stopped and peaked because there, close to the demolished surroundings of the Three Broomsticks, were several dark-robed men keeping some Hogwarts students hostage—accompanied by none other than Gellert Grindelwald, who had his gaze locked intently onto Hadrian's form.

Tom shivered as he remembered the horror he'd felt at the scene.

The most feared dark wizard of their time had Hadrian, who had looked like he was ready to collapse, surrounded and trapped.

Thankfully, Dumbledore had arrived just in time before Tom could do something moronic and completely out of character, like taking on Grindelwald and his men by himself.

Once Hadrian had collapsed, after Grindelwald and his conscious men fled the battlefield, Dumbledore had wasted no time in carefully levitating Hadrian's unresponsive body and rushing him to the Hospital Wing.

For the briefest of moments, Tom had stood rooted in his hiding spot, watching all the Blacks and Potter racing after Dumbledore.

He had felt torn between wanting to follow them and wanting to act as unconcerned as possible. In the end, his need to know how Hadrian was doing was stronger, and he quickly rushed to catch up with them, ignoring the voice in his head telling him that he was acting most undignified.

Once they had reached the Hospital Wing, Dumbledore immediately called out for the middle-aged matron who had been waiting for the arrival of the students with several potion vials kept close to her on a trolley.

"Jacqueline!" he'd bellowed ungently, his usually bright and sparkling blue eyes, dark and desperate. "Come help me stabilise Mr. Peverell," he'd commanded with a small quiver in his voice.

Tom wasn't the only one that had noticed the Professor's small slip in his composure, because not a moment later, Alphard Black forcefully stepped in Dumbledore's way.

"What do you mean, _stabilise him_?" Alphard had furiously demanded, his whole body trembling with constrained rage. "What exactly is wrong with Harry?" he'd snarled, barely registering the threatening step he'd taken towards his Professor. He'd looked seconds away from cursing Dumbledore, and that's when Potter had grabbed him by the shoulder and warningly hissed something in his ear that Tom didn't quite catch.

At that moment, Tom glimpsed some of that madness all Blacks were rumoured to inherit in recent generations.

With this scene playing out in front of him, it wasn't very hard for Tom to deduce that Alphard was halfway in love with _his_ Hadrian.

Thankfully, Tom had been too preoccupied with agonising over Hadrian's well being rather than the competition he faced for his affections. He wasn't quite sure what he'd have done if that hadn't been the case.

"Mr. Black," Dumbledore had snapped in an unusually curt tone, which given the circumstances was reasonable enough. "While your concern is appreciated, it does not serve as an excuse for you to act disrespectfully. Now, if you want your friend to live through the next hour, you will move out of my way this instant," he barked while sending Black a glare Tom hadn't thought him capable of producing.

At first, Alphard hadn't moved. He had just stood there distrustfully eyeing the Deputy Headmaster. Then, when he dropped his gaze towards Hadrian's levitated form, he had immediately dropped his shoulders and taken a resigned step back.

But as Dumbledore hurried to walk passed him, Alphard spoke up again. "Respectfully, Professor. We're not leaving Harry's side," he'd said darkly with that touch of dark madness.

Tom had been grudgingly impressed by Black's daring. Dumbledore wasn't the type of wizard you defied, not unless your name was Tom Riddle, that is.

Dumbledore had slowly turned around, and his eyes had roamed over the five students standing behind him. Hesitantly, he'd nodded his head.

"Just be quiet, and don't get in our way," he'd warned them shortly before hurrying on.

Dumbledore had then proceeded to fix them a private room in the Hospital Wing, which had been growing more crowded by the second.

That was about ten minutes ago.

Right then, Alphard Black was pacing back and forth, never taking his eyes off the matron and the Deputy Headmaster, and his ears were tuned in to every single word exchanged between the adults.

Tom figured it was a good thing that Alphard was so distracted since it kept him from noticing Tom standing in his corner next to Cygnus.

Potter had taken a seat on the floor with his back resting against the wall, and his knees pulled to his chest, his hazel eyes intently watching the bed Hadrian was being hovered over with barely contained anxiety and grief.

Orion, on the other hand, looked like the picture-perfect Pureblood heir that he was—his face devoid of any emotion. That, in and of itself, was evidence of how hard the boy must have been taking the whole ordeal. Tom hadn't thought that Orion would be the sort to bottle up his emotions, but since his sister was silently sobbing into his shoulder, he couldn't especially afford to break down as well.

Cygnus was looking at his family with a worried expression on his face. He didn't have as strong a bond with Hadrian, but he was faultlessly loyal to his family, and Hadrian had just saved all of their lives.

Tom himself stood stoic and unmoving, hardly able to believe that Hadrian was fighting for his life.

Before any more questions and observations could spiral through Tom's mind, he heard the matron speak again.

"I've regulated the oxygen flow in his bloodstream, but the spell needs to be maintained, or his whole system will collapse," she told Dumbledore. "His spinal cord is damaged. I-I don't know if I-" she stuttered. "A-And the trauma to his head…. I can't even administer any potions because of how unstable his core is. I don't know how, but he's trying to fix himself. It's not unheard of, of course, but he shouldn't be able to do that with how drained his core is—there's just too much damage," she informed him. "This boy needs a healer, Albus. There's only so much I can do for him here. He needs to be taken to St. Mungo's, immediately."

Lucretia released a distressed whine and clutched even harder onto her brother, tightly fisting his fine robes in her hands as Harry's dire situation was finally spelt out for everyone in the room.

Alphard growled and shot Weaver a scathing glare that she would have definitely flinched away from had she been aware of it.

Everyone else stood in silence, their nerves shot, as they waited to hear Dumbledore's reply.

Dumbledore sighed and shook his head regretfully.

"Wizarding Britain suffered four other attacks today besides the one in Hogsmeade. The hospital has reached maximum capacity and has sent out a missive informing us that until further notice they are on lockdown," he said.

"Four other attacks?" Weaver gasped.

"Yes, four other attacks," Dumbledore repeated, sounding slightly guilty as he said it. "It is up to us to help Mr. Peverell through this. I'll keep the oxygen flowing while you start repairing the most extensive damage," he instructed.

Madame Weaver gave Dumbledore a brisk, understanding nod, steeled herself, and, with a sharp flick of her wand, she vanished Harry's bloodied and muddy robes.

Tom was embarrassed to admit that his eyes squeezed shut at the sickening sound of Hadrian's fine silk robes being ripping off his skin, and he was unable to curb his aghast shiver.

The matron's horrified gasp immediately gripped back everyone's attention, turning all eyes in the room to look at her ashen face.

"What has the boy done to himself?" she whispered, not taking her eyes off of Hadrian's chest.

Everyone promptly looked down towards Harry's exposed chest.

Lucretia was first to react, releasing another long, distressed whine. With a trembling voice, she questioned aloud what all of them were thinking.

"Rune Branding?" she croaked, echoing everyone's incredulity.

Sure enough, besides the multitude of different old and fresh scars littering his upper body, there were some that were more significant. There, on his right side over his ribs, Hadrian had a row of six circular scars which looked like intricate runes branded onto his skin.

Such rune practices had not been in use for over three centuries, at least not branded onto the skin like some useless cattle. Even in their backwards culture, it was considered barbaric. It wasn't necessarily outlawed, as long as they were defensive runes, but in their civilised society, it was considered savage and definitely not advocated.

It wasn't as if anyone wanted to put themselves through that kind of torture, especially not when more elegant and pain-free methods had been discovered.

Maybe Hadrian was a masochist? One could hardly come to any other conclusion when Hadrian not only had one branding but several trailing down vertically in perfect alignment.

Two of those six rune scars were burned open and still had blood oozing out of them, which was a clear indication that those two runes had been recently activated.

"Albus! How is he-"

"I don't know," Dumbledore cut her off and pointedly glanced at the children, presumably to stop the matron from revealing too much in front of them.

Nodding her head, Madame Weaver started working on Hadrian's organs.

After a few tense minutes, the matron finally looked up at Dumbledore. "I fixed his lungs, ribs, and kidney as best as I could—just enough for them to hold up until we get him a Healer. Now I need you to turn him around as gently as you can, Albus," she requested.

Once they turned Hadrian over, they all grimaced and flinched.

Alphard released a small whimper and stumbled backwards—away from the gruesome sight.

Hadrian's back was completely butchered, and Madame Weaver hastily started repairing the mess of muscle and skin.

While spell after spell hit Hadrian's back, a new voice sounded from the Hospital Wing, which was loudly arguing with the Headmaster.

Both Orion and Lucretia's heads turned away from Harry, wearing the same expressions of relief on their faces.

"That's Father," Lucretia breathed as her eyes widened. "Father is a healer!" she exclaimed as if she'd completely forgotten the fact. "He can help with Hadrian!" she cried, louder this time, already out of her seat and rushing out of the room.

"Father!" she screamed, not caring about her unladylike behaviour. She was sure that just this once it could be forgiven.

"Lucretia!" Arcturus breathed, the furious expression he'd just been wearing while talking to Professor Slughorn and the Headmaster melting away from his face. "Sweetheart," he sighed, trembling with relief as his little girl jumped into his arms. "Are you alright, darling? What about your brother? Harry? Your Cousins?" he rapidly questioned while looking her over for any injuries.

Lucretia shrugged his hands off and took a hasty step back. "I'm fine, and so is Orion, but Harry—Dumbledore and Madam Weaver are trying to heal him. But Father, there is so much blood-" Arcturus didn't even let her finish explaining.

"Take me to him, Lucretia," he interrupted urgently. "I'll make sure nothing happens to Harry," he promised, hoping that he hadn't just lied to his little girl.

Lucretia bit her lip and nodded her head.

Her father was one of the best Healers in the world, even if he had retired a few years ago. He would make sure that Hadrian lived.

When Arcturus walked through the door, Madame Weaver visibly relaxed but didn't stop working, while Dumbledore looked up with a mixture of relief and mistrust.

"Lord Black," Dumbledore greeted wearily. "I must admit that I feel rather relieved to have a skilful healer such as yourself here to assist us with young Hadrian. I'm sure you've heard that St. Mungo's is on lockdown," he said, but he might as well have been talking to the wall because Arcturus Black's attention was focused entirely on Hadrian's bloodied and unconscious form.

Lord Black swiftly moved forward and rapidly started asking questions that even Tom was having difficulty following. It wasn't as if he had spent much time researching healing. It wasn't a subject that had previously inspired any interest in him. He ended things rather than healing them, though that might have been remiss of him in the face of such a situation.

"Reckless, completely reckless," Arcturus mumbled, taking over. "When he wakes, I'll skin him," he growled, startling the matron standing next to him. "And you!" he snapped, turning his furious gaze onto Dumbledore. "I know you're only a Transfiguration Professor, but how could you..." he trailed off and shook his head.

It was not the time to lay blame, Arcturus thought. He needed to make sure that Harry lived. Harry, who after only five months of friendship, already felt like a vital part of his family.

Since Arcturus locked eyes with Harry at the Ministry on that hot summer day, everything seemed so much brighter. And it wasn't only him that felt this way—his entire family had been affected by Harry.

He'd like to think that he'd taken the boy under his wing, offering guidance to a young man that has been left alone in the world. Yes, he'd like to think that, but in truth, it was Hadrian who had taken him and the rest of his family under his strong and caring wings. It was Hadrian's presence that had taught their souls to soar again.

They couldn't lose him. He won't allow it to happen. Hadrian had too much to live for, too much to accomplish. He couldn't die. Not like this.

Once Harry's spine and the majority of his back were healed, Arcturus turned him around and gasped much like Madame Weaver had done when she'd caught sight of his Rune Brandings.

He crouched down and examined the recently activated runes, trying to infer their purpose.

He mustn't have liked what he saw, because he abruptly straightened his back and ran a hand over his face.

"Such a complete imbecile," he hissed before turning to face the six students crowding the other side of the room. "Which one of you can tell me, when and for how long Hadrian used the Blood Shield? Someone must have noticed him slicing open his palms," he questioned demandingly.

"About five minutes into the ambush." It was Orion that spoke up, his voice no more than a hushed whisper. The young heir ground his teeth together and composed himself before he went on. "Harry saved us. He held back about thirty men long enough for Cretia to save some injured third-years, and then he ordered us to contain the dem-dementors," he shuddered, remembering the icy-dead chill that had consumed him at the creatures' arrival. "I didn't want to leave him, but he-"

"It's alright, Orion. You did as you were ordered. You did well," he reassured him. "I'm assuming Harry didn't bow out of the fight once he dropped the shield," Arcturus guessed, his mind already going through all the possible colossal ramifications of his overexertion.

"No, he didn't." It was Tom who had spoken up. "But besides duelling, Hadrian also did some very complicated healing on a Hufflepuff girl. Her lungs were punctured, and she was dying," he explained. "And then he also healed my arm. It was cursed, and I was convinced that I was going to lose it, but Hadrian healed it."

Once Tom started talking, he couldn't stop. It was as if all the helplessness that had been gnawing at him burst forth.

"He mentioned that there were wards around the village, but I-I saw him Apparate at least twice. He shouldn't have been able to do that, even if it was inside the wards. That alone should have had his core in tatters, but he just kept pushing on. I don't know _how_ he knew, but he said that there were bombs in the village. _Muggle bombs!_ And then he was off, to prevent the explosions, I suppose, like some…some… _hero_. That idiot. I've no idea how he was sorted into Slytherin. All his actions today prove that he should be donning lion stripes," he spat derisively, barely able to restrain himself from shaking with fury at the other boy's lack of self-preservation.

At the information he was given, Arcturus closed his eyes and cursed, fearing the worst.

Harry was such an incredible young wizard. Such an incredibly _stupid_ young wizard.

He'd pushed himself too far, and now his mind was broken, and his core drained.

Before any further healing could be done, he had to make sure that Hadrian's…unusual practices with runes were kept a secret. While he knew that none of his House would dare utter a single word about it, he couldn't be sure of anyone else's intentions, and they simply couldn't risk any of these people spreading the word around the wizarding community. There was simply too much at stake in the next coming weeks.

"I must ask you all to swear a vow of secrecy in regards to Harry's Rune Branding. I'm sure you understand that such delicate matters should be kept private."

As Arcturus had suspected, Albus Dumbledore didn't seem all too keen on complying, but he nodded his head nonetheless.

The matron gave a rather indignant huff, muttering about patient and healer confidentiality, but she also agreed to his request.

Once everyone, including Potter and Tom, swore not to reveal Hadrian Peverell's rune branding to anyone outside of those that already knew, Arcturus gave them a pleased nod and resumed his initial analysis of Harry's injuries.

He pointed his wand at Harry's forehead and, without any further preamble, delved into his mind.

Darkness—that was what Arcturus found himself surrounded with. He was in a long, dark tunnel with nothing but endless void around him

Even beaten within an inch of his life, with his magical core almost completely depleted, Harry's mind was protecting itself from intruders while at the same time doing its best to heal the damage that has been inflicted to his brain by the explosion.

At that moment, Arcturus really wished Harry wasn't so damn impressive.

* * *

While the humans were fretting over Harry's life, Death was standing on the sidelines, watching this disaster unfold.

Harry was dying. Not permanently, of course. But the little mortals didn't know that—hence the fretting.

So yeah, the stupid shit was minutes away from dying and painfully sending Death to his knees. Harry dying was always so fucking painful and preferably always avoided.

Alright then, so he had three of the following options available to him.

He could let everything play out, and by default allow Harry to figure out a way to explain away the 'waking from the dead' thing. While it would be very amusing to watch Harry flounder about for a believable excuse, Death had a feeling that Harry wouldn't appreciate that situation.

He could also heal Harry himself, but that would also lead to curious humans asking several unwanted questions.

Then there was the option of making it look like one of these mortals had healed Harry. But no, he didn't like the fact that someone else would take credit for his work. No, that wasn't an option at all.

Or he could put some effort into it and figure out a way to avoid the questions, or at least, the very hard ones concerning Harry's immortality.

So, how could these mortals help Harry? They'd fixed up his body well enough, but his brain was almost fried with the overload of magic, not to mention the head trauma he'd received from the explosion.

The real question was—how were they going to drop Harry's Occlumency shields without making him crash and burn? His mind was on the defensive, as was his magic. If they tried anything, his magic would lash out, and that would be the end of Harry, at least for the next ten minutes or so.

It was almost disgusting how limited their abilities were, and it was really all their fault for being so disconnected from Mother Magic. And Arcturus was a Pureblood, for Merlin's sake! A Pureblood with a long ancestral history and an expansive library.

Death's eyes shot up and darted between the several Blacks in the room. Several Blacks that had access to Family Magic. Several Blacks that wanted nothing more than to keep Hadrian alive and well.

A wicked smile spread over Death's lips. Sometimes his brilliance surprised even himself.

Death immediately searched for Lord Black in Harry's mind and wasn't very surprised to find him still in the tunnel, fighting a futile battle with Hadrian's defences. He'd have loved to spend some time watching the man struggle, but unfortunately, time was of the essence.

"Family Magic," Death whispered, startling Arcturus, but surprisingly the man managed to keep his concentration and remained in Harry's mind. "Only Black Family Magic can save him now," he said, making sure to sound as ominous as possible, fighting back the urge to cackle just to fuck with Arcturus.

Wide-eyed, Arcturus stumbled back and broke the connection.

"Uncle?" Alphard urged him anxiously, but Arcturus was still too startled to speak.

Family Magic? But that was impossible.

Yes, the family grimoire contained a few spells that could help, but they could only use those spells on members of the House of Black. Any non-relative would be eviscerated.

Harry had never mentioned having any Black blood running through his veins. Sure, when his manor had taken so well to Harry's magic, he'd briefly wondered, but he quickly forgot about it in the excitement of that day.

But that voice said it was the only way.

That voice—had it been Harry? But, no. It hadn't sounded like Harry at all.

Could he trust it? Could he trust a voice he heard in the mind of a boy that was about to die? What if it had been his imagination? Wishful thinking?

Arcturus looked up at his son and saw the devastated look in his eyes. With a glance around the room, he nodded his head, gaining confidence.

How could Harry be anything but their blood when all the Blacks in the room looked like they would lay down their lives for him?

As he made his choice, his magic hummed happily beneath his skin. It was almost as if it was trying to show it's approval of the plan—giving him consent. That served to cement his resolve even further.

Hadrian Peverell will not be dying anytime soon.

"Albus, Madame Weaver," he called out as he straightened his back. "I'm going to have to ask you and any non-blood-relative to leave this room. My Heir and I need to call on our Family Magic," he said.

Orion gasped and swayed against his sister, holding onto her shoulder for support, and every other Black in the room shared the same expression of shock and disbelief.

"But, Father," Orion managed to choke out with a slight shake of his head, not quite able to express how insane he thought his father sounded.

Arcturus gave him a small, reassuring smile and nodded his head. "Trust me, Son," he said without a trace of doubt in his voice, before turning back to face Dumbledore who looked uncertainly back at him, searching his eyes—probably looking for any sign of madness or maybe a mental-breakdown.

"Lord Black," Dumbledore started slowly. "I understand that your family is very fond of young Hadrian, but unless you're sure he shares blood relation with you-"

"I do not need you to explain my own Family Magic to me, Dumbledore," Arcturus cut him off with a sneer. "What I need you to do is to ward off the rest of the hospital wing," Arcturus sapped authoritatively, pulling himself up to his full height.

Looking no less concerned then he had a minute ago, Dumbledore gave him a reluctant nod.

"Jacqueline, go help the other children. Mr. Peverell is in good hands now," he told her. She gave the boy she'd been trying to save one last glance, before doing as the Deputy Headmaster asked of her, knowing that she was more useful to the other scared children.

"Stand on Harry's left side, Orion. We-" Arcturus started to direct but was interrupted by Alphard.

"I'll do it," he said, in a tone that left no room for argument. "I'm already off age, and no offence, Orion, but I'm also stronger than you. I need to do this," he begged. "I can't lose him. Uncle, I l-" he abruptly cut himself off, his hands tightening into fists at his side.

'I love him' was left unsaid, but heard by everyone nonetheless.

Tom narrowed his eyes at the Slytherin seventh-year and had to work very hard to reign in the bouts of jealous energy that wanted to jump out of his skin. Thankfully, before he could completely lose it, Dumbledore asked him and Potter to leave.

"Mr. Riddle, Mr. Potter. I need to ask you to remove yourselves from this room. Anyone with non-Black blood wouldn't survive the backlash," he explained gently.

Potter quickly got up to his feet and shuffled out after Tom, promptly followed by Dumbledore.

Once out of the room, the Deputy Headmaster instantly started warding the rest of the Hospital Wing against whatever magic the Blacks were going to release behind those conjured walls.

Back in the room, Arcturus was still looking at Alphard, and after a few more nerve-wracking moments, he finally granted him an acquiescent nod of his head.

"Harry used too much of his magic, and it's left his core drained," Arcturus started explaining. "On its own, that's not a very large concern, and with enough rest, his core would easily replenish itself, especially at the rate Harry core seems to absorb magic. The problem lies with the damage his head received from the blast. This head-trauma has, unfortunately, shattered Harry's mind."

Alphard gulped and nervously bit his bottom lip. He'd deduced as much from what he'd heard the adults discussing earlier, but to have it said so bluntly still shook him.

"If Harry's core hadn't already been exhausted before the blast, that might not have been such a problem, but as it is, whatever magic he's absorbing isn't enough to fix the head-trauma. The damage is too extensive for his overworked core to make a difference. If this goes on much longer, he'll burn out."

Alphard grimaced but nodded his head.

"We need to fix his mind for him so that his magic can focus on replenishing his core. Which brings us to what the real problem is. As it stands, Harry's defences are still too strong for me to get through by the traditional means. Don't ask me how," he added when he saw his nephew about to interrupt him, "because I don't know."

"We need to tear down his Occlumency shields," Alphard guessed sounding grave.

Arcturus gave him a short nod, not looking too pleased about the prospect himself.

"Precisely. But we can't simply tear down his Occlumency shields. Doing that will most likely turn his mind onto itself, or even worse, his magic could lash out, and we would lose him anyway. What we need to do is connect with him through a Temporary Blood-Bond," Arcturus revealed solemnly and immediately started searching his nephew for any doubt or fear, but all he saw was fierce resolve.

"If we both connect with him at the same time, it might keep him grounded long enough for me to repair the damage. Do you understand what you must do?" he asked him.

"Once we connect I must find Harry," Alphard said confidently.

"Yes, once the blood bond is activated, I need you to try and find him as quickly as possible, and then you're going to need to hold onto him. Don't get distracted by his memories," he warned him. "It will be very overwhelming, but you need to focus and trust in our family magic; it will guide you to him. Once you find him, I'll slowly bring down his Occlumency shields. Alphard, this means that you are still going to have to pass his defences. It might very well be a painful and traumatising experience, but I need you to stay strong long enough to find him. Do you think you can do that?"

Alphard gave him a fierce nod and took his position on Harry's left side.

Arcturus allowed himself a small smile. "Alright then," he sighed.

"Children," Lord Black addressed the remaining occupants in the room. "Albus is warding the Hospital Wing, but Hadrian is a very powerful wizard. I need you three to form an added shield around us. Just in case-"

Just in case he's wrong, and Harry wasn't a Black.

Cygnus, Lucretia, and Orion all nodded their heads in understanding. Black magic could be very unpredictable…and earth-shattering if released unrestrained in the best of circumstances. As it was, they were currently sailing through uncharted territory.

Once everyone took their positions, Arcturus conjured a dagger and slit open both his palms without so much as a wince. Then he looked up at his nephew. "You know the incantation?" he asked him as he handed him the blood-stained dagger.

"I do," Alphard reassured him with a grim expression. He took a deep, calming breath before he, too, sliced open his palms with the dagger. Since Harry had recently cut open his palms, Alphard only had to apply the barest hint of pressure for the wound to reopen.

The dagger vanished, and Arcturus and Alphard clasped one of their hands together, then began to chant in sync, calling on their Ancient Family Magic to help them protect one of its members.

Then, at the same time, they reached out, and they each took one of Harry's palms into their own, closing the circle.

Then the race began.

* * *

The moment Harry uttered the thoughtless exclamation _'I can't die, you imbecile!'_ Alphard's mind was stuck on those three little words.

 _I can't die._

 _I can't die._

 _I can't die._

He'd said it in such an exasperated manner—as if Alphard was an absolute idiot for forgetting that Harry _couldn't die._

He sounded so sure of himself…

 _I can't die._

 _I can't die._

 _I can't die._

Even with Lord Grindelwald's wand pointed at his jugular, those words hadn't stopped spinning inside his head—repeated maddeningly in an on-going loop.

He'd felt so stunned that he barely even registered the life-threatening situation he had found himself in—hadn't been able to summon the right amount of terror and panic he should have rightly felt at being held hostage by Lord Grindelwald.

It was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

He must have misheard, or Harry had misspoken.

Everyone _died_. Even in the magical world, everything that lived had to die. Well, unless you're a vampire. But vampires weren't actually alive—they were _undead,_ which was a different thing altogether. And in any case, Harry wasn't a vampire, nor was he any other undead creature.

Harry was a wizard, and therefore, he could very much _die_.

In fact, Harry was unconscious and on the verge of death that very moment.

So what had he _meant_?

And what in Morgana's name did Lord Grindelwald want with Harry?

By the end of the battle, it was quite clear to Alphard that the whole attack had been orchestrated for Harry's benefit. But _why_? Why would a Dark Lord such as Gellert Grindelwald go through such lengths to get rid of one wizard that hadn't even graduated from school yet?

And even if it wasn't done to get rid of Harry, the only remaining option would be that Lord Grindelwald had wanted to _test_ Harry. But _why?_ Until a few months ago, no had even heard of the name Hadrian Peverell. So what did Lord Grindelwald want with him?

Harry had told them that his parent's death had been an accident, that they had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. They hadn't been targets. So why would Lord Grindelwald take such an interest in Harry?

Was it possible that he knew what Harry was planning?

While it was true that Harry's involvement with the Ministry and the Wizengamot was being kept quiet for now, it was still possible that Lord Grindelwald had spies inside the Ministry.

Or perhaps Lord Grindelwald was interested in Harry because he was the first Peverell to reveal himself to the public since the fourteenth century when their line married into the Potter's and was thought to have died out.

In his early days, for whatever reason, Lord Grindelwald had been known to use the Peverell crest, until—again, for whatever reason—he decided to stop using it. So was it possible that there was a connection there?

But even considering all that, Lord Grindelwald's actions that day seemed to be a bit too dramatic, and much too out of character for him.

It was all so very confusing. And ridiculous. Harry was still only a seventeen-year-old.

But Harry _had_ shown an immense amount of power—almost a _ridiculous_ amount of power.

He'd done a lot over the past few hours that should be considered impossible—apparating through anti-apparition wards being one of them. Not even _Branded_ Transportation Runes should've been able to manage that.

It was almost as if the laws of magic didn't apply to him.

' _I can't die, you imbecile!'_

No. There had to be a reasonable explanation for everything.

Once the ritual was over and Harry's mind restored, he would get his answers. But at that moment he had to focus all his energy on the ritual.

So Alphard shook away any distracting thoughts and concentrated on the Family Magic that was filling up the room with it's suffocating presence.

They had stopped chanting a few moments ago and were waiting for their Family Magic to answer their pleas.

It was a queer sensation, having this oppressive magic tugging gently at your very core, assessing your intent and worthiness. It was a familiar feeling, but at the same time, it wasn't.

All Blacks do a ritual to call upon their Family Magic before entering Hogwarts, and then they perform a smaller one each year on All Hallows Eve to maintain a strong connection with their Family Magic.

Usually, until the euphoric sense of approval washes over you, its presence felt more brutally invasive, almost apathetic in its handling. But today it felt more…tender, if such a word could ever be used to describe Black Family Magic. But it was indisputable. There was certain care in its invasiveness that he'd never felt before.

For a moment, a rush of pleasant warmth washed over Alphard, urging him to close his eyes and savour the feeling. But once his eyelids fluttered shut he was plunged into an icy blackness that left him immobile with a sudden sense of irrational fear.

It didn't take him long to figure out that he was trapped inside Harry's first Occlumency defence.

The fear he felt wasn't his own. It was projected onto him by Harry's first line of defence against invaders, which was meant to leave a lesser trained mind too crippled with illogical fear to move on.

Alphard couldn't see anything, but he had this instinctive feeling that he was stuck inside a tunnel.

Not wanting to waste any more time, he did as his uncle had instructed and tried to concentrate on the Black Family Magic that had brought him here.

Pushing away the fear long enough to pick up anything else wasn't easy, and Alphard didn't know how much time had passed until he finally felt a gentle tug around his navel.

He focused all his energy on that small tug and almost wanted to cry out in triumph when he felt the protective warmth of his Family Magic spreading over him.

Once the fear was gone, he noticed that he was indeed located inside a dark tunnel, and on the other end of it, there was a green door.

His Family Magic was pushing him towards the door, so he obediently did as it instructed.

But he didn't get very far. The first step he took towards the door made him scream and double over in pain at what felt like a hundred knives being stabbed into his flesh.

Once the excruciating pain subsided, he quickly checked himself for any injuries, belatedly remembering that he was inside Harry's mind, and thus, wouldn't actually have any physical injuries.

So that had been another one of Harry's defences.

Alphard scoffed. Leave it to Harry to be so theatrical.

"It's not very original, Harry," he allowed himself to mock.

As he took another step and felt the same pain all over again, Alphard had to admit that while it may not have been original, it was still very much effective.

Alphard rolled his shoulders and ground his teeth together. He didn't have time for this. He would have to simply brave through the pain. Stopping after every step he took would only draw out the torture.

By the time he reached the Merlin damned door, Alphard felt like passing out. He'd never felt such pain before, and he was certain that if he hadn't had his Family Magic to pull him through it, he wouldn't have made it past the sixth step.

Before his melted brain could try and come up with an adjective adequate enough the describe the utter agony he was in, the green door he'd just been through torture to reach, swung open and sucked him into a nauseating, swirling vortex.

Alphard was sure that if he could, he would have been sick.

A few seconds later—a few seconds too long if you asked him—he was spat out of the vortex into what could only be a nightmare.

There was water—a very large quantity of it.

On the other side of this large body of water, there was another door the same shade as the previous one, and he didn't need his Family Magic to tell him that he had to cross that large body of water to get to the door.

There was no boat. He had to swim across. And _that_ was very much a dilemma for him.

Alphard Black wasn't afraid of much in the world, but he had an uncontrollable phobia of _large bodies of water_.

At that moment, he truly hated Harry.

Five Occlumency obstacles—a lot of cursing, and a lot of breathing exercises—later, Alphard found himself in a library.

He would like to say that his mind was as organized as Harry's, but really, his mindscape looked like a playroom compared to this.

Alphard was standing in the middle of an enormous library that left him absolutely dizzy with the sheer number of books it contained.

It wasn't simply a large library with several shelves of books. For Morgana's sake, he was standing next to a spiralling staircase that led up to several different floors. So many in fact that he could barely make out the roof of this thing.

Morgana's tits. This was absurd.

How much information and memories could a seventeen-year-old possibly accumulate?

His Black Family Magic tugged at him again, pushing him towards the staircase. But before he started his climb, he noticed something very peculiar.

The floor he was currently on was labelled _'Twenty-fourth Century'_ which was buggering ridiculous _._

He couldn't help himself. He knew that he should just go up the stairs and ignore all the alarm bells shrilly ringing in his mind—but he couldn't. Instead, he walked down the aisle until he reached the last book that was titled, _'2364 - The End of the World'_.

And wasn't that positively insane?

He didn't have time to speculate what it could mean because once his fingertips brushed against the spine of the book, he got sucked into another swirling vortex.

His landing wasn't any more graceful this time around, so it took him a moment to regain his bearings.

What Alphard saw once he regained some of those lost bearings swiftly pushed him off-kilter again.

The scene in front of him looked very much like what the title of the book had implied. The end of the world.

Fire, ashes, and destroyed buildings as far as the eyes could see. It was a truly terrifying sight.

Next to Alphard, on top of a lone surviving tower amidst the rubble, stood Harry next to a dark-hooded man.

He tried to shake off his shock long enough to tune in to their conversation and gain some small understanding of where, how, why, _when_?

And listen he did, but what he heard left him even more bewildered.

Before he could break the cogs in his brain over-thinking the conversation he'd just been witness to, he was roughly pulled out of the memory by his Family Magic, who was suddenly much less careful with its handling.

In a blink of an eye, he was back in the library and was practically being dragged back to the staircase.

"Alight! Alright!" he snapped. "No more detours. Understood."

And so he began his very long ascent.

On his way up, he read some very perplexing things that had him utterly flummoxed, but he ignored them. Not that he had much of a choice.

When he finally reached the last floor labelled _'Elevator to the Basement'_ Alphard felt like screaming.

The top floor was devoid of any shelves or books. Instead, there was an elevator door which presumably led to the basement of the library—meaning all the way back down the stairs he'd just climbed up.

Who devised the entrance to the basement on the _top_ floor?

Harry, apparently.

So he took an elevator ride down to the basement, which felt like it took even longer than it had for him to climb up.

Once the door finally opened, and Alphard stepped out of the elevator, he released an exasperated groan.

"Really, Harry? An ever-shifting maze?"

Thankfully, his Family Magic knew the way and lead him straight through the shifting hedges.

Once he reached the other side of the maze, there was a door with a rusty looking plaque on top of it that read _'Memories Best Forgotten'_.

Before the dread could fully overtake him, he was pushed through the door and into what was now a very familiar swirling sensation. The only difference was that while in this vortex he caught glimpses of Harry's memories.

They were only brief glimpses, but it was enough.

Enough for him to understand that Harry had been lying to them, even if it was for a very good reason.

Enough for him to understand that Harry had meant it when he said that he couldn't die.

Enough for him to understand why Harry was so adamant about politics and his vision for the future of the wizarding world.

Enough for him to understand why Harry insisted on associating with Riddle even though Alphard had warned him away from the little snake.

Enough for him to understand Harry's absurd need to include Potter in his circle of friends.

Enough for him to understand why Harry's mental library had floors labelled _'Twentieth Century - Version Two'_ and _'Twentieth Century - Version Three'_.

Enough for him to understand just how powerful Harry actually was.

Just when he thought that his brain was about to freeze because of the sheer amount of information that had just been thrown at him, the vortex spat him out, which at that moment Alphard felt immensely grateful for, even if he did land on his face.

Alphard got up and noticed, not without disgust, that he'd landed in a hallway of what was possibly the most mundane looking house he'd ever seen. He'd bet his wand that this was a muggle residence.

But why would Harry ever step foot inside such a horrible abode?

Alphard could definitely see why Harry had grouped this memory with his less desirable ones.

Before his critiquing, grey eyes could take in any more of the bland decor he heard a most unpleasant, booming sound that could have only been produced by a whale of a man.

"Stop that horrible crying this instant, you ungrateful freak! Or I will drag you out of that closet by your neck and break your other arm!"

 _How very charming_ , Alphard thought warily.

"Vernon!" screeched a woman's voice. "Not so loud," she hissed, "or the neighbours will hear."

It was then that Alphard noticed a small cupboard under the stairs that had a small flap and several locks on it. He didn't think much of it at first, but that was only until his Family Magic pushed him towards the cupboard.

Harry couldn't possibly be in that tiny cupboard, could he?

The boy that man had been screaming at couldn't possibly be Harry. Not his Harry.

Without much further thought, Alphard unbolted the door and flung it open nearly clean off its hinges. And to his utter horror, inside the small cupboard sat a small boy with Harry's beautiful eyes.

The malnourished child was muffling his sobs with one of his tiny fists while cradling his left arm protective to his chest. He also had a large bruise forming on his gaunt cheeks.

"Harry?" Alphard choked out, not wanting to believe his eyes.

A familiar set of emerald green eyes turned to look at Alphard with such a pained gaze that all he could do was lurch himself forward and take the trembling boy in his arms.

He'd done what his uncle had set him out to do. He'd found Harry.

Now he just hoped that his uncle would be quick about getting them out of there.

"You're going to be alright, Harry," he whispered reassuringly while rocking the whimpering boy who was clinging onto him for dear life.

When little-Harry broke down crying violently in his chest, Alphard started rubbing soothing circles on his back.

"Those nasty people can't hurt you," he promised. "You don't have to be afraid anymore. I'll keep you safe."

Throughout all of this, all Alphard could think was, 'How are you still such a wonderful person, Harry? After everything you've been through, how do you find the strength to go on?'.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

 **28th November, 1941**

 **Evil Dark Lord Lair,**

 **Somewhere Undetectable,**

 **Germany**

Distracted blue eyes were peering out of a third-floor window located in the comfortably decorated master bedroom of a quaint-looking house, their unfocused gaze watching without truly seeing the storm raging outside the warm, red-bricked home.

The house itself looked and felt distinctly wizarding, what with the moving portraits lining the walls, the self-steering cauldron on top of the kitchen stove, and the unusual use of candles instead of the revolutionary light bulbs. Yes, it was a wizarding home, undoubtedly, but it also reeked of _mundanity_. It was definitely not a home one would suspect of housing a dangerous Dark Lord.

But housing a Dark Lord it was. Specifically, the Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald.

Obviously, this _normal_ looking house wasn't his base of operations. He had more lavish manors to utilise for those specific purposes.

This unnervingly cosy and positively ordinary house was simply Gridelwald's humble, childhood abode. No person alive knew of its existence, not even his most trusted of followers. No, this one place he'd kept all to himself, rightfully unwilling to share the only location where he was able to enjoy any semblance of peace and quiet. It was the one place he went to when he needed to think without any interruptions, the place he retreated to when the world around him ceased making sense.

And at that moment the world had most assuredly ceased making sense.

Lord Grindelwald wasn't the sort of individual that was easily stunned; neither was it typical for him to be rendered to a confused state of mind that verged on bewilderment, nor was he the sort to be easily intrigued, for that matter. But astonishingly enough, Grindelwald was left surprisingly stunned, thoroughly confused, and undeniably intrigued by one Hadrian James _Peverell_.

His _name_ and the news of the boy's existence had been enough to attract his undivided attention, irksomely distracting him from all his pressing plans that he'd spent many months meticulously constructing into perfection.

But in light of the events he'd witnessed the previous day, his _name_ hardly bore any significance to Grindlewald anymore. The creature the name belonged to, on the other hand, was doubtlessly the most exquisite thing he'd ever had the pleasure of laying his eyes on.

There was no one word to describe how he felt after the events that had taken place at Hogsmeade. In the span of no more than an hour, the Peverell boy had managed to invoke in him a multitude of forgotten emotions, and not all of them were necessarily the pleasant sort.

He'd single-handedly upended his entire world with his sheer, inexplicable brilliance.

The attack hadn't gone as he'd expected, to say the least.

When he'd first received news of the Hogwarts transfer student, witnessed to be wearing the _Peverell_ Lordship ring, he'd felt the ground being ripped from beneath his feet.

It had been a peculiar sensation, feeling himself drop into a never-ending fall, and yet at the same time being consciously aware of the fact that his body stood rigidly unmoving in front of one of his Generals.

The next few moments, while trying to regain some of his composure, he'd gone through several different emotions so quickly that he'd felt himself getting ill. He'd felt irritation and incredulity, which then swiftly escalated to fury for a scant few seconds before turning into explosive excitement, then quickly back to incredulity, which then contorted into more rage intermingled with hope, want, outrage, shame, scepticism, suspicion, which then all settled into a prolonged, dumbfound sort of shock.

How had he never come across any evidence of the boy and his family's existence? In all the years that he'd devoted to researching the Peverell family lineage, how could he not have found them? How had they evaded him for so long?

Their existence was clear proof of his colossal failure. What else didn't he know? What other information has he overlooked and let slip through his fingers because of his own incompetence?

Dark Lords could not afford to make any mistakes.

How had he not found them? How had they hidden themselves away? What magic had they used to cloak generations upon generations from all known location-magic known to wizarding kind?

The Peverell family had managed superbly to hide away from the whole world. They had gone through great lengths to keep their affairs private and their existence obscured, that much was obvious. But what Lord Grindelwald wanted to know was _why_ they had chosen to stay hidden for so long. He also wanted to know why Hadrian Peverell decided to finally step out of the shadows his family had lived in for centuries.

Various possible reasons had immediately started whirling through the Dark Lord's sharp mind as he tried to make sense of this unexpected turn of events. One theory, in particular, had stuck with him, even though he'd since learned it to be incorrect.

He'd thought that it would have been somewhat understandable if the family had hidden away their true identity to protect the Elder Wand, and Grindelwald's inability to locate the legendary wand had given credence to that theory.

But then why would Hadrian reveal himself? It had stood to reason that as an overconfident, young wizard, Hadrian hadn't agreed with his parents' decisions to live in obscurity, and after their demise, without any adult guidance, he no longer felt the need to adhere to their constraining wishes.

It had been a rather plausible explanation, after all, he, himself, was intimately acquainted with the unquenchable compulsion of defiance.

But now that he was almost entirely certain that the boy wasn't in possession of the Elder Wand, he wasn't quite sure what to make of Hadrian Peverell and his motives, and the boy had plenty of _motives_. His breathtaking performance the other day told him as much.

No wizard would have pushed themselves the way Hadrian must have done without having any ambitions and goals.

Grindelwald hadn't had any particular expectations regarding the seventeen-year-old wizard. Truth be told, beyond his affiliation with the Peverells and the vague possibility that he was in possession of the Elder Wand, he hadn't thought much about him at all. He definitely hadn't thought of Hadrian as an individual with any sort of potential, and even if he had, he never would have anticipated the glorious creature he'd been faced with.

Grindelwald had to reluctantly admit that the boy had garnered his begrudging respect, the type of respect that he'd only ever had towards his former lover and partner in crime, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. But his respect for the boy was also tightly interwoven with a strand of reverence that was highly unbecoming of a Dark Lord of his calibre, but he truly couldn't help himself.

By Morgana, in all his years, he'd never encountered such a divine creature.

The boy was as close to perfection as any fallible mortal could hope to achieve.

The sort of education Hadrian must have received wasn't, by any stretch, considered normal. He wasn't simply _advanced_ in his studies—wasn't simply a _prodigy_. Hadrian had been trained with a purpose, he'd been trained for battle, for leadership.

He'd been trained to wage war and _conquer_.

But which war was he trained to fight for? Against him and his armies? Against Albus? Against the Wizengamot? Against their whole broken world? The possibilities were endless and disturbing in their ambiguity.

Whoever had trained him has done an admirable job, too admirable of a job, really, because the raven-haired wizard was magnificent—irrevocably, undeniably, and _unearthly_ _magnificent_.

Hadrian was brimming with raw magical power, a sign that he must have worked tirelessly on his core and his connection to Magic. That in itself wasn't altogether unusual. Some of the older and darker families trained their heirs in such ways, but it was impossible for them to control larger quantities of magic for an extended period of time until their fifth decade or so, and some never did.

For Hadrian to have all that power under his tight control was astonishing. It was a feat he'd have thought impossible only two days ago.

But there was no disputing what he'd seen and felt.

That boy's magic had been oozing out of him in soft, restrained waves, and whenever he'd made use of it, it had sent an anticipatory shiver down his spine, alerting him of the predator nearby.

All that power. All that knowledge. _All that control_ _and finesse._

But his prowess didn't limit itself to the magical world. Oh no, Hadrian had more than proven himself aware of the muggles and their terribly ingenious weaponry—and wasn't that nugget of information simply _delicious_?

 _So young. So young. So impossibly young. How? How? Why?_

Hadrian James Peverell was magnificent and perfect in every possible way, and Grindelwald wanted him—was absolutely _ravenous_ for him.

With each inexplicable magical feat he'd witnessed from him, his hunger for the raven-haired boy grew tenfold, but it was his razor-sharp tongue and his blazing emerald eyes that had his loins clench and burn in a way he'd forgotten himself capable of.

Beaten, bloody, and battle-warn, Hadrian had still been the most attractive thing he'd ever seen.

Oh, how he wanted him—how he _ached_ for him.

Such power. Such potential. Such ruthlessness. Such confidence. Such _beauty_.

But the magnificent boy wasn't the only concern on his troubled mind.

Together with all the shock, uncertainty, intrigue, and hunger he felt for the raven-haired wizard also swirled an acute disappointment that he couldn't ignore.

He'd hoped that his long search had finally come to an end, that he'd finally found the Elder Wand, but that hadn't been the case. Oh no, that hadn't been the case at all.

 _Realistically_ , he'd known that finding the boy in possession of the wand had been a very slim possibility. He'd tried to go to Britain without any expectations, had tried to treat his trip to Britain as an insignificant excursion. But, unfortunately, he hadn't been very successful in dampening the strong flare of hope that had ignited inside his bitter heart at the mere possibility of having finally, _finally,_ located the legendary wand—the most powerful of the Three Deathly Hallows—the Deathstick.

The plan had been simple, so very simple.

Attack Hogsmeade, test Hadrian and search him for the wand.

Hadrian Peverell and the Elder Wand had been his only true targets.

He'd given his followers strict orders not to permanently harm any of the other Hogwarts students. After all, he didn't relish in killing precious magical blood, especially not that of children that could still be conformed to his regime.

Had Hadrian not impressed him so, he would have disabled the bombs himself. They had only been planted as a fail-safe, which he was now rather grateful for since it had given him a broader understanding of the boy and his abilities.

But his simple plan to attack, detain, dispose, and triumph had been thoroughly derailed, and not only because the boy had danced around his attacks with an ease that had him in equal parts furious and enamoured, but because his most recent lead on the Elder Wand had been a complete dead-end.

It had been a simple matter of casting a Wand Reveal spell, and once he'd done that, all his building hopes had been crushed into stardust.

The spell he'd cast on Hadrian had clearly revealed to him that Hadrian's wand was made of holly and phoenix feather, and to his great disappointment, it had also shown him that Hadrian had no other wands connected to his magical signature.

There had been no wand, but he couldn't allow himself to dwell on the disappointment, not when the boy himself had all but shattered his solid equanimity with his abundant talent and genius. Not when such a delicious opportunity had presented itself to him on a silver platter.

He kept calling him _boy,_ but boywasn't quite right, was it? Hadrian was undoubtedly already a man. No child could walk, talk and fire spells with such confidence and precision and still be called a child.

No. Hadrian was a man, and what a fine, young man he was.

Instead of the wand he'd coveted since his youth, he'd found a remarkably powerful wizard that could become an incredible asset to his cause, should he be persuaded to his side.

So, while he was immeasurably disappointed with not having found the Elder Wand, he couldn't quite regret his impromptu visit to Britain, even if it did mean that he was now at war with the isle because while Hadrian was not an all-powerful wand, he was quite the gem in his own right.

Hadrian had the makings of a great general—no, he already was a great general—who was possibly the most worthy candidate as heir to Lord Grindelwald's legacy.

He foresaw vast greatness, should Hadrian be seduced to his side, and ruination—for Hadrian, of course—should he decide to openly oppose him.

His magical aptitude was beyond anything Gellert had ever witnessed or thought possible before, surpassing his own or even Albus's brilliance at his age by inexhaustible lengths. But there was something that didn't add up. Truthfully, there was much about Hadrian Peverell that didn't make a lick of sense, but the one thing he couldn't quite let go of was that Hadrian had known about the bombs.

 _How_ had he known? How had he located them? And where exactly had he learned how to disable a muggle bomb?

And to a lesser degree, he also couldn't quite cease wondering about who had taught Hadrian runes. Because even the most knowledgeable runemasters would have had some difficulty disabling his personally-crafted set of Warding Runes that he'd placed around the bomb in that busy pub.

There was something _off_ about Hadrian and his unnatural brilliance.

It wasn't _almost_ impossible for someone his age to be that good. It was impossible. _Period_.

But that wasn't all.

There was something unmistakably wrong about the young wizard's severe and oppressive presence.

Throughout the whole attack, Hadrian's magic had been a constant, present wave crashing against his own calm and dark magic, with some sporadic change in currents that threatened to drag him down its intoxicating depths.

But when Hadrian had been blasted through the wall of the pub, landing painfully amid his followers, for one fleeting, hair-raising moment, he'd felt it, the full gravity of his powers—had tasted it on his tongue as he drowned in its presence.

His magic had lashed out in one defeating wave, and then it was gone so quick that he wasn't sure if he'd imagined it. But, no, he'd indeed felt it—that unprecedented, overwhelming power—because an unfamiliar unease had clung to him as the aftershocks rippled through his body.

There was no, one accurate way to describe it. It had been both dark and light—a night sky awash with stars. It had felt heavy and yet weightless. It had felt malicious and disquieting, but at the same time...at the same time, he'd felt _protected_.

But its taste had been rather unforgettable.

Mixed in with what he could only describe as Fall-warmth, apples, and icy winds, was a distinctly familiar acrid taste of _death_ , identical to the flavour of the energy that cackled in the air after he's taken someone's life.

Then the boy had begun to stir. His magic coiled tightly back into his body, keeping him aware in the face of danger—then he _stood_.

By all that was magical, he'd _stood_ , however shakily, and given him _cheek_.

Blood had been flowing in streams down his face and neck. His robes had been burned and shredded, together with large chunks of his flesh, and yet, _by_ _Morgana_ , the arrogant boy had had enough energy to give him cheek.

When he'd come face to face with a beaten and haggard-looking Hadrian Peverell, all his instincts had screamed at him to flee.

He'd had the upper hand, had Hadrian injured, surrounded, and trapped, and still, he'd felt a foreboding sense of uneasy clawing at his chest urging him to retreat.

It was preposterous, and yet the feeling had followed him home and hadn't let up in its intensity.

' _Run!'_ it still screamed at him. _'Run and don't look back!'_

Grindelwald narrowed his blue eyes into a hard glare.

He didn't like the compelling fear and reverential deference he felt towards Hadrian. It was something innate.

Bringing his image in front of his eyes was enough to drench him in ice and then swallow him in a blazing fire, leaving him breathless and his pupils dilated with a delicious mixture of fear and pleasure.

It was disconcerting, to say the least.

While he was eager for answers, for now, he'd simply observe him from afar and find a way to court him, and maybe discover some of his secrets along the way.

He already knew that Hadrian wouldn't be easily swayed to his side. His courting would have to be executed most delicately if he had any hopes of sparing him from the alternative fate he faced, because if all else failed, if none his effort came to fruition, then he'd have no choice but to find a way to end the enigmatic Hadrian Peverell, however regretful and wasteful such an outcome would be.

Power such as Peverell's couldn't ever be given the opportunity to oppose him. Dumbledore was already more than enough of an obstacle for him to worry about, he didn't need another mage blessed by magic to come between him and absolute victory.

He'd have to kill Hadrian before he grew influential enough to cause him and his campaign any real damage.

He already didn't appreciate the whispers he'd heard about the Wizengamot session Hadrian had supposedly called together, which was to be held next week, assuming that Hadrian was recovered by then, which he truly believed that Hadrian would be.

Grindelwald sighed and turned away from the window, his thoughts shifting to his somewhat excessive attacks on Britain, who he was now officially at war with.

It wasn't that he regretted his decision to attack, or that he was at all worried about his war with Britain. He was simply irritated that because of these new developments he had to adjust most of the plans he'd already set in motion, and even bring to a halt in some cases. But at least he was confident that France would soon fall, and England would be quick to follow. His forces were more than large enough to take on both countries at once, even if he'd have preferred not to. But finding Hadrian had been well worth it; also, it was time he stopped hiding away from Albus.

It was time for Grindlewald to face his old lover and bring Albus's beloved Britain to heel.

* * *

 **28th November 1941**

 **Number 12 Grimmauld Place,**

 **London**

It was well past midnight, and after the day he'd had Arcturus Black should be fast asleep next to his darling Melania. Instead, he was still in his study, frantically pacing while nursing a rather indulgent amount of very expensive and very old Firewhiskey. The elven crystal tightly clutched in his right hand was spelled to refill itself once empty, which was probably not the cleverest thing to do, but undeniably needed, what with the way his thoughts kept spiralling.

Too much happened in the short span of a few hours, so much had changed, so many had been lost already. And to think that without Hadrian his children might not have made it out of Hogsmeade alive. To think that he could have lost his heirs at the hands of that _madman_.

They were at war now.

Merlin, help them all, they were officially at war now.

As soon as he'd gotten back from Hogwarts, he'd received an owl from the Ministry with the official notification.

' _Esteemed Houses of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,'_ it said. _'It is with the deepest regret that we inform you that, as of 18:00 on the 27th November 1941, Magical Britain has officially declared war against The Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald, and against any and all governments that have aligned themself with the wanted war criminal.'_

So they were at war, with a Dark Lord, half of America, Germany, Russia, most of France, and countless other smaller countries.

Even with the gravity that was the war barreling their way, at that moment, it was truthfully the least of Arcturus' concerns. Harry, on the other hand….

Merlin, help him and grant him strength.

Hadrian was a mystery he wasn't sure he wanted to unravel. The more he learned about Hadrian the more fascinated he became, but with that fascination also came a healthy measure of wariness.

Whatever Harry had been through—whatever he's capable of—it had been enough to terrify his nephew into absolute silence. Arcturus took solace in the fact that when he'd tried to separate them, Alphard had clung to Harry with frightening fervour until a bed of his own had been conjured into the room for him to rest in.

His nephew wouldn't have done that if he was scared of Harry.

Then there was the sudden pile of responsibilities that had fallen into his lap because of the boy, which were exhausting to handle, to say the least.

But besides agonising over these new set of responsibilities, he also couldn't stop himself from distressing over the boy's condition.

Harry _should_ wake up.

Actually, no, he shouldn't, because by all accounts the boy should already be dead. But he wasn't. He was alive and breathing, however impossible that seemed.

Besides his replenishing core, which was doing so quicker than he'd ever seen before, all the diagnostic spells he'd cast on him simply recorded that Harry was _slumbering_.

He was in no pain. There was nothing left to heal. So, yes, Harry _should_ wake up.

But that didn't stop Arcturus from worrying.

Backtracking to those responsibilities…. Apart from the fact that he needed to keep the extent of Harry's seemingly insurmountable prowess from the general public, handling his Gringotts and Ministry correspondence, as well as overseeing Harry's recovery, he also needed to bury whatever connection there was between Harry and Grindelwald—and there had to be a connection.

War waging Dark Lords didn't stop for quick chats with seventeen-year-olds for _no reason_.

Grindelwald was mad, but he wasn't _that_ mad.

Arcturus had already owled his solicitor to keep the press from releasing any articles about Harry, but he couldn't prevent people from talking, and there had been plenty of witnesses to fuel the gossip.

Many children had probably already owled their parents with some diverting tales of Hadrian James Peverell.

Mighty Morgana, why had the boy been so selfishly stupid?

Harry had saved the students at great personal risk, and while that had been as heroic as it had been reckless, and _should_ garner favourable opinions, it could also lead to ruin Harry's political career before it even had a chance to begin. People were wary of outsiders, especially outsiders with remarkable abilities that stopped to have chats with Dark Lords, and most especially now that they were at _war_.

Not that he wasn't beyond grateful that Harry had kept his children and their cousins safe. He simply would have felt more comfortable had Harry only gotten himself and his family to safety, so that this mess might have been avoided—so that Harry's close brush with death might have been avoided.

But beyond his selfish reasons, there was also the reality that Harry was now essentially exposed. Within the next two days, everyone would have heard about how powerful Harry was. He didn't know how to stop that from happening, short of placing a Taboo on his name.

But that was also not his worst worry. While, yes, the politics had gotten a smidgen more complicated, it was a more personal matter that had Arcturus repeatedly draining his glass.

As any rational wizard would do after performing Family Magic on a wizard they hadn't known was part of said family, he'd gone home and consulted every book available to him to trace Harry's lineage to his own.

Unsurprisingly, his avid searching only resulted in more questions.

He found nothing that would link Harry to their family—nothing at all. Whatever their relations were, they were so distant that their Black Family Magic should have viciously rejected their pleas. The fact that the exact opposite had happened was simply another headache-inducing worry he'd have to file away for later inspection.

While Arcturus hadn't managed to find anything that related directly to Hadrian James Peverell, he did find something that had left him impossibly anxious.

The Black Genealogy tome had an entry written in it that was dated about four months back—two entries actually—of which he had no prior knowledge.

As he was Lord of his House, that should _not_ have been possible.

For a few moments, on July 23rd, the Black Lordship had been _transferred_ to an unknown party before it was relinquished and transferred back to Arcturus _._

That alone was troubling enough, but combined with the fact that he hadn't even been notified of this transfer, made it even more troublesome, because that could only signify that whoever his Lordship had been transferred to had a stronger claim to the Black Lordship, and that this unknown wizard had not wanted Arcturus to learn of his identity.

Arcturus didn't want to be suspicious, he truly didn't. But the dates did suspiciously line-up with Harry's arrival to Britain. The only thing keeping him relatively calm was the fact that his Lordship had been voluntarily relinquished by this _unknown_ wizard. Not many would be ready to let go of a fortune like the Blacks', not unless they had a vast fortune of their own, and even then the greed for more was ordinarily hard to overcome. But Harry did seem like the sort of wizard that wouldn't be enticed by galleons….

Include the critical matter of the Black Family Magic's unprecedented cooperation...and it all seemed to fit together.

It was suspicious and confusing, and somewhat far-fetched, but mostly it was draining to think about. Too many hows and whys.

All he knew and had recently learned about Harry aside, who was the boy really?

Harry never told them much about his past and he never really mentioned his parents. He spoke about his interests and his aspirations, but aside from that and the rare anecdote he told about when he'd been here and there, he didn't share anything at all personal about himself.

In fact, Harry seemed to have purposefully omitted quite a bit about himself, most glaringly being the little tidbit about the extensive training that he'd most assuredly received.

Runes. Blood Magic. Dark Arts. Defence against the Dark Arts. Healing. Mind Arts.

And that's only what Arcturus was currently aware of.

Harry had never mentioned _any_ of these talents. Harry had never allowed even a shadow of his true potential to rise to the surface in any of their conversations.

Was it modesty? A cunning ploy to be underestimated?

Arcturus had known that Harry had a knack for politics unlike he'd ever seen before in someone his age, and yes, he'd also been aware that the boy was much more powerful than he'd allowed himself to show, but he'd never even considered that his uncanny, natural proficiency with politics wasn't his only strong talent.

To accel and be that controlled in so many different branches of knowledge and magic was absolutely stupefying for any wizard, let alone someone Harry's age.

And the magical reserves of the boy were completely off the charts.

Harry should have died. He couldn't quite let go of that. There was no rational reasoning as to why the boy hadn't been dead when Arcturus had arrived at Hogwarts.

Realistically, Harry should have had no more than five minutes left to live after he'd taken the brunt of the blast in Hogsmeade.

 _Realistically_ , Harry should have passed out from magical exhaustion the first time he attempted to activate the Transportation Rune that had somehow managed to rip through the Dark Lord's wards— _which should not have_ _worked_ , let alone have been successfully activated _numerous_ times. Harry shouldn't even know about Rune Branding, let alone have _six_ of them savagely branded onto his young body.

But even if he did somehow manage to put aside Harry's questionable practices, sheer brilliance, and raw magical talent, Arcturus was left with those inexplicable Occlumency shields of his—those ridiculously impressive and thoroughly inexplicable Occlumency shields.

Arcturus was a world-renowned Healer, specialising in no less than three different areas—Spell Damage, Mind Healing, and Healing Runes. The brain was his forte, and in his long career, he'd never, not once, encountered a mind like Harry's.

It was…. He had no words. It simply wasn't plausible for even the most genius of wizards to accomplish.

Occlumency wasn't about power—it was about discipline, patience, and many, _many_ , years of practice and building walls.

The only wizard he'd ever treated that came even close to matching Harry's Occlumency shields was Nicolas Flammel, and the wizard was as ancient as he was brilliant, not a seventh-year Hogwarts student.

So how does one explain away Hadrian Peverell?

How? Where? When? Who? _Why?!_

To say that Arcturus was glad to be on the boy's good side would be a laughable understatement. Formidable didn't quite cover what Hadrian James Peverell was turning out to be.

Arcturus would take some solace in the fact that Harry was neither Dark nor Light because the balance of the world wouldn't be able to handle a wizard of his magnitude picking a faction.

He truly believed that Harry had the power to make or break their world.

At least Arcturus did get _some_ good news after the awful day he'd had.

Together with the official missive from the Ministry about the war, another letter arrived. That one had more favourable contents inside, informing Hadrian James Peverell's proxy that _'the generous offer House Peverell has made to loan the Ministry their estate in Scotland, to be used exclusively as a shelter for war victims who have lost their homes has been gratefully accepted. Should House Peverell decide to offer any further aid to the Ministry in these dire times, it would be greatly appreciated and immediately taken under consideration.'_

Now _that_ news hadn't really been all that surprising. The Ministry was wholly unprepared for the coming war and its consequences. But somehow, Arcturus knew that Hadrian already had a plan on such an outcome, and a way to turn this mess to his favour.

Pushing for clearance to move forward with the orphanage would be much easier now that the Ministry owed Harry a favour, which would bring them one step closer to their main goals.

So many plans and Harry wanted to achieve them all within the next five years. While at first Arcturus had found the time limitation too optimistic, he was beginning to doubt him less and less.

But how a war fit into all these plans he didn't know.

And first, before they could start acting on any of Hadrian's plans, Hadrian's appeal _'To change Magical Britain's age of admission for Muggle-born children to be integrated into the Magical Civilisation'_ needed to be voted on and passed.

Easily done. Harry thought so, but with all that was going on Arcturus wasn't quite as confident.

Arcturus groaned, miserable and defeated, and took another long gulp of his Firewhisky.

That boy would be the death of him.

On yet another, but slightly unrelated note, the creation of a new physical plane of existence Harry had written to him about in jest, as a theoretical solution for absolute segregation from the muggle world, somehow didn't seem so comical or theoretical anymore. He also had this biting feeling that Harry had never meant for it to be a jest in the first place. And if he had been serious…. If he was, indeed, serious, then he didn't quite know how to feel about that, or how to even begin wrapping his mind around that impossible concept.

To think that Harry had the power and genius to create what was essentially a new world was a rather frightening concept. Yes, it was a rather frightening concept, indeed. But that didn't mean that it wasn't a brilliant concept.

To roam free and unencumbered by fear of detection, it was all magical creatures and wizards have ever dreamed about.

Arcturus would believe Harry if he said he could do it. And he'd be the first to offer his assistance. In fact, the next day he'd have to scour the library for some books that could help Harry with this revolutionary project and maybe he would even inquire about some more tomes from a few connections he had in the D.O.M.

One thing was certain and solid as a rock. Life was never going to be boring with Harry around. And Arcturus thought that the few, extra, greying hairs he'd been acquiring since the boy had barrelled into his life, were well worth it.

That didn't mean that he wasn't going to strangle the boy for his absolute recklessness as soon as he woke up from his recovery.

* * *

 **29th November, 1941**

 **Hospital Wing, Hogwarts**

While the students and Professors at Hogwarts began to stir from their fitful slumber, Harry was still lying unconscious in the Hospital Wing, trapped in the clutches of Morpheus and Phobetor, the latter of which was absolutely delighted to finally have unobstructed access to Harry's worst memories.

It wasn't every day that the slippery immortal was left vulnerable enough for them to mess with. They had no option but to make the most of this rare opportunity they've been given.

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 _Harry was having tea with Hermoine, and that would usually have been an enjoyable afternoon spent with his best friend. But as was often the case recently, their relaxing afternoon was rapidly turning sour._

" _Harry," Hermoine sighed exasperatedly, blowing away a loose curl that had come undone from her otherwise perfectly styled bun. "I know that you've repeatedly said that you didn't want me looking into it for now, but don't you think you're being careless? Don't you find it at all odd that you haven't aged a day past seventeen?" she pressed, her lips pursed into a frown and her brows crinkled disapprovingly._

 _Harry groaned and looked away from Hermoine, feeling an irrational spike of anger coursing through his veins, which made his volatile magic react in kind, seeking to strike down the source of his ire._

 _He began clenching and unclenching his fist, trying to get a hold of his emotions and erratic magic, the latter of which he felt worryingly rippling along his taut skin, scorching him from the inside out._

 _It took all his self-control to keep his magic from lashing out, from jumping out of his skin—something which was, unfortunately, becoming a common occurrence of late—but somehow he managed not to rip his best friend to shreds._

 _It took a while, but after taking a few deep breaths he felt calm enough to let go of the tight grip he had on his magic, although his body didn't relax; his muscles were still coiled and his stance ready for a strike._

 _This, all this, was messed up._

 _His behaviour was irrational and much too aggressive. He knew that but knowing and understanding didn't stop him from conjuring a small thunderstorm storm whenever his mood began to take a nosedive._

 _He'd always had a short temper, which, laughably enough, he'd hoped would be cured with the removal of Voldemort's Horcrux. But as was rather typical for him, the exact opposite happened. Instead of calming, his temper had gotten immeasurably worse, even more so over the past few months._

 _He was a terror to be around. He knew that, and by Merlin, he'd tried so hard to fix himself. He'd tried talking to mind healers, had tried Occlumency and meditation, tried venting his rage and exhausting himself to sleep. He'd tried so many different potions that he's lost track of all their names. He'd even tried some muggle therapy and medication._

 _Nothing worked. His personality was as prickly as ever._

 _He couldn't really put what he was feeling into words, but the best explanation he had to offer was that he felt a change building within himself, felt it biding and building up to something, something dark and powerful, to something he'd rather not ponder for too long._

 _Whatever it was that he was building too was too significant for words, and he felt afraid, so afraid that he'll be ensnared by its intoxicating feeling and then never be able to escape from its clutches._

 _He couldn't even begin to start guessing why he felt this way—this restlessness and anger, this building sensation, this want—but what really had him baffled was the constant feeling he carried around with him of something missing, something vital, something that he instinctively knew would make him whole if found._

 _The fact that, as Hermoine so generously pointed out not a moment ago, he hadn't aged a day past seventeen was also weighing heavily on his mind and didn't help improve his mood._

 _While his friends didn't, by any stretch of the word, look old, they bore tells that they had grown past their teen years, whereas Harry could easily pass for a very mature looking seventh-year student at Hogwarts, and mature looking was stretching it._

 _Was his nonexistent ageing related to his recent change in mood and lack of control? His gut said yes, and his gut also told him that he didn't want to touch the truth with a ten-foot pole._

 _It was like this—he really wanted to know what the buggering fuck was going on with him, but he also really didn't want to know at all. He was at constant war with himself. He'd go to the library for a book, find something he thought relevant, then he'd spend hours reaching for it before quickly retracting his outstretched hand._

 _It was maddening._

 _So no, he'd really rather not discuss these helplessly contradicting thoughts with Hermione._

" _I really don't want to talk about this, Hermoine, and I don't want to know," he told her._

 _When he saw her about to argue, his emerald eyes flashed angrily behind his fringe. "Drop it," he warned her._

 _She'd been pestering him for the past year, and he wasn't in the mood to hash out old arguments._

 _It's not that he didn't think that she was right, as was often the case with Hermoine; he simply wanted to live a normal life for as long as he possibly could. He didn't think that he was asking for much._

" _So you're not the least bit curious as to why you haven't aged?" she pressed on, not noticing the way Harry's posture had stiffened defensively or the way his eyes had begun to glow in that creepy way that they now had a tendency of doing. Had she noticed, she may not have blurted out her next words. "Don't you see that it isn't normal, Harry? What if—"_

" _I think it's best you take your leave, Hermoine," he said in a deadly, calm voice that sent unpleasant shivers down Hermione's back._

" _Harry? What...?" she obviously felt confused since Harry had tried very hard to never take that tone with her, but Harry didn't have any patience left._

" _I said, get the fuck out of my house, Hermoine. Before I end up saying something I'll regret," he gritted out through clenched teeth in that same deadly tone._

" _Harry—" she tried, sounding beyond baffled at her friend's harsh attitude._

" _GET OUT!" he screamed, barely able to control the rage he felt building again. He felt it, felt it building stronger with every second that she stayed seated—he felt himself about to explode._

 _She needed to get out before he lost control and accidentally hurt her._

" _FINE!" she screamed back, tears streaming down her anger-flushed cheeks. "Don't come crying to me when this all blows up in your face!"_

 _Then she was finally gone and Harry could finally let go._

 _It rippled out of him, each wave stronger than the last._

 _The last thing he saw before passing out was his demolished living room._

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

" _Ginny," Harry sighed regretfully, knowing what he had to do and finally willing to go through with it._

" _Don't, Harry," she begged him, her beautiful brown eyes already tinged red with the tears she was trying to hold back._

 _The sight broke his heart._

" _You know that it's the only way for you to be happy, love. I can't give you what you want," he said before he could change his mind again._

" _But I love you, Harry. Melin, I love you so much. Why won't you try? Why don't you want a family with me?" she asked him, her questions frantic and desperate._

" _I can't do it," he choked out almost inaudibly, swallowing down the acidic bile those words brought to his throat. It was the truth, but what a poisonous truth it was. "I can't have a child with you, Ginny. I can't watch them grow old and die. It's going to be hard enough with Teddy, but to watch my own flesh and blood die…. I can't do it. I can't go through that."_

" _So that's it?" she asked him, her tone glacial, as were her typically warm and beautiful brown eyes. "You're just going to throw away six years of marriage?"_

" _She does realise that you're immortal, right? Six years is hardly even a drop in the ocean for you."_

 _Of course, Death decided that right then was the most appropriate time to just pop by for a quick visit._

 _Harry shot Death a glare that didn't go unnoticed by his wife._

" _He's here, isn't he?" she practically hissed, her face turning a bright shade of angry-red. "Tell him to get the fuck out of my house!"_

 _Only Ginny Potter-Weasley had the balls to basically tell Death to go fuck himself._

 _Harry scratched the back of his neck and sent Death a pointed look that he decidedly ignored._

" _Just tell her I've left. It's not like she'll know that I didn't," Death told him nonchalantly._

 _Harry rolled his eyes but didn't press the matter. To be honest, he didn't want him to leave, because Death's presence, for some unfathomable reason, comforted him._

 _Yes, he did know how insane he sounded._

" _Is he gone?" Ginny asked him with a pointed glare._

" _Yes," he said, not even blinking at how easily the lie had rolled off his tongue._

 _Ginny narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but if she didn't believe him she made no mention of it._

" _Is there nothing I can say to talk you out of this divorce?" she pleaded with as much dignity as that question allowed, but the resigned note in her voice told him that she already knew what his answer was going to be._

" _It's the only way for you to be happy," he repeated, sounding defeated but resolute._

 _Even as the first tears began spilling down her pale cheeks, his strong, beautiful wife gave him a small, brave smile. "Always so selfless, Harry," she managed to gasp before she threw herself into his open arms and started sobbing into his chest._

 _As the relief of having finally gone through with it washed over him, Harry didn't feel particularly selfless._

 _Was not wanting children really the only reason why he wanted to divorce Ginny?_

 _He'd wondered, once or twice, but he didn't want to think about it, not then when he had his arms full of his heartbroken wife._

" _I'll always love you, Harry."_

 _Harry closed his eyes and allowed a lone tear to escape._

" _And I'll always love you, Ginny. You'll always have a place in my heart," he whispered into her hair._

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

" _He's gone, Harry," Death whispered gently from somewhere in the distance, but Harry was too grief-stricken to listen._

 _He couldn't be gone. Not his godson. Not his Teddykins._

" _Wake up you miserable old man," he brokenly pleaded with his godson while he started desperately shaking his lifeless body. "I made you breakfast," he said through sharp gasps of breath. "Blueberry and chocolate chip pancakes with crispy bacon on the side. Now get up so I can complain about the sickening amount of honey you like to pour over your breakfast," he begged, voice thick with unshed tears._

" _Harry-" Death sighed. "He's dead, Harry," he stated, not necessarily unsympathetically, but he didn't sound very consoling or compassionate either._

" _Shut up!" Harry snapped, not looking away from Teddy's sleeping face. "It's not his time. He…he shouldn't be—he's not dead," he choked out. "Come on, Teddykins. Wake up," he begged. "Wake up. Wake up. Wake up!" he screamed before he finally collapsed to his knees and broke down into a blubbering mess._

 _His whole body shook with the heart-wrenching sobs tearing out of his chest, sobs that left him gasping for air and made him painfully clutch and claw at his chest._

 _Harry felt wrecked._

 _He'd lost everyone he'd ever held dear to him, and now he was completely alone._

 _Hermoine and Ron had died over thirty years ago, Ginny following quickly behind them. Their children had also recently passed away._

 _Many of his friends and acquaintances were gone, or too old to really do anything other than rest in the comfort of their home, waiting for death to finally take them._

 _Teddy had been the last person left who he'd felt a real connection too. He'd been the only one left that Harry truly loved and cherished. He'd been the last person he'd considered as his—his to care for, his to love._

 _He'd raised Teddy as his own son, bestowing him all the love he deserved and would have gotten from his parents had they survived the war._

 _He'd watched the infant in diapers grow into a young, thoughtful adolescent, and then he watched him grow into a man Remus and Dora would have been proud of. He'd watched Teddy, kind and spirited Teddy, grow old and weary but still keep his youthful playfulness._

 _And now he watched as the body of his godson lay in his bed, drained of his life and soul._

 _Teddy's first word had been 'Ree'._

 _He'd started walking at eleven months—running really. He'd been an absolute terror as a toddler._

 _Their first-ever argument had been about Teddy calling Harry 'Daddy'. He simply hadn't been able to stomach replacing Remus like that._

 _Teddy, with his childlike innocence, had been the one to console him when he'd divorced Ginny._

 _Teddy was the only person he'd told about being Master of Death who didn't make a big fuss about it. 'Well, that's convenient. Now I don't have to worry about you ever dying on me, you old fart,' he'd said, shrugging in a way only a teenager knew how._

 _Teddy had been the first person he'd confessed to being bisexual. He'd simply rolled his eyes and said, "Like I didn't already know that. It's not like you're subtle about it."_

 _The first piece of magic Teddy had done when he turned seventeen was to prank Harry to say the opposite of what he meant to say for a whole week. Suffice it to say that he'd kept out of the office for the whole duration of that week._

 _Teddy had managed to improve the wolfsbane potion before the age of twenty-five._

 _Teddy—his beautiful baby boy whom he loved beyond anything else in the world, the one person that had given him purpose—was now gone far beyond his reach._

 _Teddy would never call him an old fart again._

 _He'd never call him a pervert again and send stinging hexes at him for looking at some young piece of ass._

 _He'd never prank him again._

 _He'd never get to hold Teddy again and tell him how proud of him he was, and how much he loved him._

 _Harry screamed—he screamed, and screamed, and screamed—his magic lashing out of him explosively._

 _That day, all of Britain felt the earthquaking grief of Harry Potter._

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 _Death had told him that it was futile to search, not that he'd listened._

 _But till now he'd been right._

 _Twenty-years of research and thirty-six complicatedly-executed suicide attempts later, Harry was still alive and kicking._

 _How fucking glorious._

 _He'd tried to keep his latest attempt from Death, but Harry had a feeling that he'd known about it anyway. It would explain the distance he'd kept from him this past week._

 _He knew that all these attempts to end his life hurt his friend, on some level—whichever level of hurt Death was capable of, in any case. But he had to try, had to try and end this utter madness._

 _There was probably a slew of psychological illness that he could be labelled with, but the easiest way Harry would describe himself without having to memorise several tongue-twisting medical terms, was batshit-fucking-crazy._

 _Humans weren't made to live this long. And while he was immortal, so fucking painfully immortal, he was still human—so very human._

 _In his long years alive, or, rather, existence was probably a more precise term to use, he finally understood the reason for death—wholly and painstakingly understood its necessity._

 _To enjoy life—to truly appreciate it—one must have an expiry date, which was something Harry lacked._

 _Every day was simply just another day in a long line of never-ending days._

 _Death said that he'd get used to it. He said that one day he'd wake up and living wouldn't be so fucking hard anymore._

 _Harry had his doubts._

 _What was there left to experience?_

 _What was left for him to fight for?_

 _The balance, of course. He was tasked with keeping the balance of magic and with it the whole world. But someone else could take on the job—anyone else would probably be delighted to. Harry always wanted to be just Harry. Harry, and not any other moniker the mortals and celestials had given him over the years._

 _What would his parents think? Having given birth to a son that was destined to shoulder such a heavy burden?_

 _Would they have wept for him as he wept now?_

 _Would they have known long before he did that all that had been waiting for him was a world of misery?_

 _Death said he was chosen for a reason—that he'd been born solely for this role. He also said that Mother Magic made no mistakes._

 _Harry had his doubts._

 _He wanted to rest. He wanted to sleep and never wake up. He wanted to take the train and see what greater adventure lay in wait for him._

 _But he'd been denied entry—denied that great adventure—because he had more important responsibilities here on this plane of existence._

 _He understood—but he didn't understand at all._

 _At least he had Death._

 _Death would always be there to keep him company._

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 _Crack!_

 _Fuck. That hurt. That fucking hurt._

' _Breathe, Harry,' he thought to himself. 'Just breathe through the pain.'_

 _Crack! Fuck._

 _Crack! Fuck._

 _CRACK!_

 _Sweet mother of Merlin!_

 _Unholy fucking hell!_

 _It hurt._

 _His back was on fire, his skin and flesh savagely ripped apart._

 _He hadn't thought that the lashes would hurt this much. He'd endured pain before. But Merlin, this brand of turture was something else._

 _He felt it every time the leather sliced into him, hot, so hot and agonising, but then the leather was gone and it burned, burned, burned, and he'd rather feel the shock and pain of the leather slicing into him than this blinding agony._

" _Are you ready to talk, sorcerer?" his captor asked him, sounding smug. Harry couldn't help but think that he had the ugliest voice he'd ever had the displeasure of hearing. It rather suited his ugly fucking mug._

 _He told him as much._

 _It earned him seven more sweetly torturous lashes._

 _His captor didn't know. He didn't know that the ugly steel he thought was binding his magic, the steel collar that was lying heavy around Harry's neck uncomfortably rubbing his skin raw, he didn't know that it was just a useless piece of steel._

 _Fucking Moron._

 _CRACK!_

" _Where is the stone!"_

 _Merlin, would he ever stop asking?_

 _Five days of this and he was already going mad._

 _But he needed to bide his time. He needed to wait for him to come._

 _He thought himself above death. Thought he could mess with the bridge Harry had been tasked to protect._

 _He thought wrong._

" _Up yours, ratface," Harry choked out, and when the leather slid into his flesh once more he couldn't help the manic chuckle that escaped him._

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 _It couldn't be._

 _He's not dead._

 _Not him._

 _It simply couldn't be._

 _The fates weren't that cruel. They couldn't be._

" _Harry! Please, Harry! You have to calm yourself!"_

 _Their lover wasn't dead. Not now that they've found each other. Not now that Harry had finally found a new family to love and love him back._

" _Harry!"_

 _But he was. He was dead. Their beloved was dead. Gone from his reach like so many others he'd loved and cared for._

 _His choking grief was soon replaced by murderous rage._

 _His vision went red with fury—a blood-red as bright as the fresh blood he was about to shed._

 _The High Priestess would burn at his hand while he condemns her soul to an eternity of unimaginable torture, but not before he dug his hands into her skull and ripped her in half with his bare hands._

 _He'd do all that, but it won't be enough, because their beloved would still be dead._

 _Dead._

 _Dead and gone._

 _Harry sank to his knees._

 _All of Albion shook beneath his rage._

 _All of Albion heard the enraged roar that ripped out of the slighted immortal._

" _Harry! Don't, Harry!" he heard the broken cry from behind him, but he ignored the plea._

 _No one took what was his._

 _Harry's deadly calm voice rang in echoes around the kingdom, heard by all its inhabitants._

" _Morgana," he whispered. "Run, Morgana. Run. Run as fast as your treacherous feet can carry you because once I've caught up with you, your soul will burn in eternal hellfire. Run, little mouseling. Run and live your last hours knowing that the Master of Death is fast on your heels, ready to collect on his revenge."_

 _Once his warning had been sent out, Harry dug his hand into the forest soil and wept. He sobbed so hard that the skies opened and wept alongside him._

" _Get away from him, Merlin," Harry heard someone scream, but he paid them no mind._

 _He was dead. Dead by Morgana's hand._

 _Why?_

 _Had she not loved him as her own, once? Did that mean nothing to her?_

 _Suddenly, Harry felt a familiar hand tenderly cup his cheek. "Harry? Harry, my love, I'm begging you. Look at me."_

 _How could he? How could he look at him after he'd failed to protect the most precious person in their lives?_

 _Why did he have to be so stubborn?_

 _Why couldn't he have just listened to Harry?_

" _He's dead," he choked out, the words slipping unbidden from his lips. "He's dead, Merlin."_

 _Harry heard his lover gasp and he clenched his eyes shut tighter._

" _No," Merlin whimpered, "She wouldn't—"_

" _She has," Harry growled, finally looking up, his green eyes glowing._

 _Merlin dropped his hand from Harry's cheek in shock, shaking his head in denial._

" _She snapped Mordred's neck in a fit of jealous rage when he stood steadfast in his loyalty to us, and now he's gone. And you can thank your beloved king for his demise," Harry hissed._

 _Tears were now openly falling from Merlin's beautiful blue eyes._

" _Is there nothing—"_

 _Harry looked away from him and closed his eyes in shame._

 _Oh, how he wished he could. How he wished that it was that simple._

" _You know of my oath, Merlin. Bringing back the dead is beyond even my capabilities," he whispered._

 _After a few moments, Harry felt his lover's hand return to his cheek and felt him rest his forehead against his._

" _We'll avenge him, Harry. Together, we'll avenge our beloved Mordred."_

 _Before Harry could say anything, he felt the knights of the round table moving around, forming a circle around them._

" _Get away from the Sorcerer, Merlin," Arthur Pendragon, the supposed Once and Future King, ordered his manservant harshly, unsuccessfully trying to disguise his fear._

" _Can I just Apparate us out of here?" Harry asked Merlin, voice hoarse and broken._

" _Cat's already out of the bag, so you might as well."_

 _That's all the permission Harry needed, and the next second they were gone, leaving a band of confused knights and a stumped king behind to gape at their empty spots._

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 _Death said that it was impossible for him to die._

 _He'd said that Harry's soul was bound to Death's for all eternity._

 _He'd said that Harry would never get to go to the realm of the dead._

 _Harry didn't believe him then. Didn't accept his fate._

 _He'd never thought that concept appealing. Not when he'd first heard of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, not when he'd realised that the Three Deathly Hallows were actually real and in his possession, not when Death had shown up and told him that he was Master of Death, and definitely not now after a couple of millennia of existence._

 _What had Voldemort been thinking? Wanting to live forever?_

 _He envied the mortals._

 _He envied them their mortality—the simplicity of their lives._

 _They are born, they live, they die, they are judged, and then they are reborn—released to the world with a fresh slate._

 _While he was stuck._

 _Stuck with his memories. Stuck with this same face. Stuck with his immortality._

 _Stuck to forever being Harry Potter._

 _It didn't matter if he changed his name or his face, beneath it, he'd still be Harry Potter—The Master of Death—Chosen Son of Magic herself._

 _He loved his mother—loved her dearly—but he wanted to rest._

 _Why couldn't he just rest?_

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 _He'd seen war before—both Muggle and Magical._

 _He'd been but a babe when he'd first been pulled into a war he'd wanted no part of—a war he'd won. Through the ages, he'd been part of several other battles and wars._

 _They were all different, yet so alike._

 _Blood. Death. Ashes. Fires. Screams. Battle cries. Famine. Decay. Swards. Guns. Wands._

 _It was always a travesty._

 _He'd seen the Roman Empire rise and fall._

 _He'd seen muggles fight and bleed for land and religion._

 _He'd seen wizards and witches fight for dominion and power over the whole world._

 _He'd averted apocalypses threatening to unleash hell on earth._

 _He'd battled to keep the balance between the living and the dead._

 _He'd seen it all, really._

 _But the trenches of World War One, as they would come to call it, was something else entirely._

 _He'd been here for months and months and months._

 _War was always long, even when the battle was short, but this time it was different. He'd forgone his magic—living as much like a muggle as was possible for an immortal being like him—and thus the war felt forever long._

 _He was hungry—starved, actually._

 _He was cold and wet and were he not a wizard he'd probably be suffering a bad case of trench foot._

 _He was sleep-deprived, so much so that he'd begun hallucinating._

 _And David was dead. That wasn't a hallucination—Death had been so kind as to point that out to him._

 _The muggle for whom he'd gone through the trouble of being a part of this dreadful muggle war, was now dead and gone like so many others before him._

 _Everyone died on him, leaving him lonelier than ever before—starved for a connection to the world he couldn't escape._

 _Everyone always died. Always._

 _So why couldn't he just die? Why couldn't he rest?_

" _I think it's time for us to ditch this place," he told Death, tone calm and devoid of any emotion._

" _About bloody time," he heard Death's sarcastic reply. "Living like a muggle," he snorted. "I'm not letting you live this one down for a long time."_

 _Harry didn't even spare him a glance._

 _The next second he was gone—far from the corpse of another dead lover and the trenches of World War One._

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 _Harry was lying haphazardly across his bed in his dorm room, with his curtains left carelessly open, unbothered by any possible disturbances._

 _He was looking up at the canopy with cloudy, unblinking eyes, his mind filled with numerous self-deprecating thoughts._

 _He hadn't done what he'd come to do._

 _He'd done the exact opposite of what he'd meant to do._

 _He was a coward._

 _He was repugnant._

 _He couldn't even broach the subject of Horcruxes with Tom._

 _He couldn't do anything but repeatedly fall into bed with his enemy._

 _Merlin, he was such a fucking disappointment._

 _It was time. He knew that it was time to try and stop Tom from becoming a monster_ **.** _But he'd lose him—lose him completely._

 _He knew that Tom loved him, in his own dark, possessive, and twisted way—in the only way that he knew how. But it wasn't enough. Would never be enough. Not then. He'd come far too late. The damage was already done._

 _Tom would never choose him over his immortality._

 _However much he wished it weren't true, however in love with Tom he was, he wasn't blinded to the man he truly was. Just because Tom had somehow managed to form an attachment to Harry, it didn't mean that he'd drop his plans on Harry's say so._

 _And Harry was so afraid. So damn afraid to confirm what he already knew to be the truth._

 _He wasn't enough for Tom. Would never be enough for him._

 _Those sweet nothings Tom whispered to him in the dead of night meant nothing in the light of day, when even standing right beside him he felt forever away from him._

 _Those heady whispers of forever meant nothing when Harry knew that Tom would soon be turning his back on him._

 _Those possessive bruises of ownership Tom kept giving him meant nothing if Tom wasn't ready to be his as much as Harry was Tom's._

' _Mine' meant nothing when the longed-for 'yours' never passed Tom's lips._

 _The harsh opening of the door and the sudden appearance of the subject of his thoughts momentarily jolted Harry out of his internal raging angst, but he kept himself still, eyes never breaking away from the green canopy above him._

 _He knew that Tom didn't like to be ignored, but at that moment, he really couldn't bring himself to care._

" _You didn't come to my dorm last night," Tom said in that typical, silky-sleek tone of his, but Harry wasn't fooled. Tom was angry with him, mostly because he couldn't process the fact that he'd missed Harry, and because he was wholly incapable of recognising the inadequacy and self-consciousness he felt stirring in his chest at Harry's blatant avoidance. So he reverted to his default setting—anger and self-righteousness._

 _When it became apparent that Harry wasn't going to reply, Tom stepped further into the room, closing the door with excruciating gentleness._

" _I don't have any patience for your childish moods today, Harry. You're going to tell me what your problem is and where you were last night, and you're going to tell me now," Tom ordered agitatedly, the air crackling with his repressed anger._

 _His petulance really made Harry want to roll his eyes, but he refrained from doing so._

 _He allowed a few anticipatory moments to tick by, sadistically enjoying the anger he could feel building in the room._

 _He wanted nothing more than to make Tom's perfect composure snap, but he refrained from doing that as well._

" _I was in the Astronomy Tower," Harry finally relented, his voice controlled and monotone._

" _All night?"_

" _All night," Harry repeated curtly._

 _There was a short pause, then, "Why didn't you come to my dorm?" he asked him, but perhaps ask was too kind a word. He forcefully demanded, as was typical for Tom._

 _Harry sighed and shrugged, emerald eyes still locked onto the mind-numbing pattern of his canopy, which, really, he'd only persisted on doing to raise Tom's hackles._

 _Huh. It seems like he was feeling a special brand of suicidal today._

" _I needed to think," he replied shortly but honestly, biting back the urge to smirk as he felt the miasma of tension in the room thickening._

" _What about?" Tom asked him expectantly, slightly accented. And without having to look, Harry knew that he'd just crossed his arms defensively over his chest. It was a habit that Tom had a hard time curbing, as with the cockney._

 _He wanted to comment. Tom absolutely hated it when anyone drew attention to his accent. But typically, and most disappointingly, the cockney only leaked out when he was angry, and no one wanted to mess with a pissed off Tom Riddle._

 _It also slipped in the throes of passion, but that's beside the point._

 _He decided to forgo antagonising him. "A lot of things," Harry snapped back instead._

" _Name a couple," Tom suggested, sounding increasingly unimpressed by Harry's stubborn avoidance of his questions._

 _Without meaning to, the one word Harry had been dreading to bring up, unintentionally—most accidentally—slipped passed his lax lips._

" _Horcruxes," he said, in a calm and unaffected tone he thought himself incapable of using while addressing those abominable creations._

 _There was another pause, longer this time—louder—deafening, really._

 _Had he just…?_

 _The angry static in the air increased, causing the hair at the back of Harry's neck to rise, his instincts screaming at him that there was a threat in the room that needed to be eliminated._

 _But Harry still didn't move from his casual position on his bed, much too lost in his own shock._

 _Had he really just done that?_

 _What the everloving fuck?_

 _He really was a special brand of suicidal today. He must be. There was really no other explanation._

 _Tom, for his part, was stunned speechless, not quite able to believe what he'd just heard—what Harry had just alluded to._

 _Harry peeked at him from the corner of his eyes, and the expression on Tom's face would have been comical in any other instance—in truly any other instance that didn't involve Harry running his mouth about his knowledge of Horcruxes._

 _Tom's eyebrows were raised to his hairline, his grey eyes round and wide, and his jaw was slack, wide enough for any tiny insect to wander inside. He'd never seen Tom look so undignified. Merlin. It was priceless._

 _It obviously only lasted a second because the next moment, Tom looked as composed as ever and only slightly hostile, which wasn't very reassuring._

" _Harry," Tom said, voice strained and harsher than Harry had ever heard directed towards him. At least, not in this timeline—not as Harry Stevenson. Harry Potter, on the other hand, had heard much worse directed at him._

" _Yeah?" Harry said as casually as he could manage while feeling numbingly cold at the knowledge that he'd just signed the death certificate to their relationship._

" _Why were you thinking about Horcruxes?" Tom asked him, his voice faint, barely above a whisper, but the simmering fury below was unmistakable._

 _Harry released a mirthless chuckle, feeling hollow and broken._

 _It was going to be one of those days then, was it? One of those life-altering days._

 _How quaint._

" _Don't play coy, Tom. It doesn't suit you," he told him, suddenly feeling rather parched._

 _Harry's heart began pounding erratically in his chest, and he felt his palms gathering sweat. He felt a panic attack approaching, but if there was one time where he had to seem solid and unbreakable to Tom, it was then._

 _Tom narrowed his calculating eyes, his gaze burning a hole into Harry's face._

 _Tom was contemplating, Harry knew that. He was contemplating how far Harry's knowledge went. Did he know about Horcruxes in general, or did he know about his Horcruxes? Should he attack, or should he gather more information? Should he try Legilimency? Should he lie and avoid? Should he kill him?_

 _Merlin, sometimes Harry really hated that he knew him so well._

" _I don't know what you're talking—"_

 _Ah, so he decided to lie and avoid. How surprising._

 _It was then that Harry sprung to his feet, finally turning around to face Tom._

" _Don't fucking lie to me, Tom," Harry growled, his eyes flashing violently. "Stop lying, and stop treating me like a fucking imbecile. And while you're at it, quit pretending to be something you're clearly not," he spat through clenched teeth._

' _Stop pretending you care,' screamed Harry's heart, 'it hurts too much.'_

 _But Harry stood tall and proud in the face of Tom's tempestuous expression, however fractured he felt._

 _Strangely enough, Tom hadn't attacked him yet; neither had he tried to obliviate him, which was rather surprising considering Tom's impulsive nature._

 _Tom took a deep breath as if to brace himself. Then, calmer than Harry thought possible, Tom asked him, "What exactly is it that you want me to say, Harry? What are you asking?"_

 _Harry immediately deflated, his anger replaced with a heavy sort of desperation that had his insides trembling._

 _He knew what he wanted Tom to say, knew what he wanted him to promise. Harry also knew that asking those things of Tom was futile._

 _So his words stayed painfully stuck in his throat because he was unable to voice them—he was unwilling to hear the rejection he knew would follow._

" _It doesn't matter what I want, Tom," Harry said instead, defeatedly, dejectedly, because it was the truth. Tom had to decide for himself which path he wanted to walk, and Harry knew better than to try and change his mind._

 _Tom took a cautious step towards him but stopped when he noticed Harry's shoulders tense._

" _Why are you being so dramatic about this?" Tom huffed, sounding annoyed, as if they weren't discussing Tom's Horcruxes, and that earned him an owlish blink from Harry._

 _How was Tom so calm about this? Harry wanted to ask, but he was sorta still trying to catch-up._

" _What is it that bothers you about it? Is it the murder? Is it because I'm immortal?" he inquired, sounding unexpectedly confused and desperate._

 _Harry's brain short-circuited for a second before his gears started running into overdrive._

' _Is it the murder?' he asked, in the same tone he'd use to ask 'Is this too casual?' while referring to his robes._

 _Harry fell short of a reply. What could he reply? 'No, Tom. Of course it's not the murder. However highly immoral and inappropriate I find the monstrous actions you've partaken in, the shredding of your soul has me a tad more concerned. Oh, and by the by, your lack of empathy is awe-inspiring.'_

 _Somehow Harry didn't think that would go over very well, however casually he managed to word it._

 _Somehow, Tom took Harry's stunned silence to mean that it was, in fact, his immortality that he took issue with._

" _We could make you one," Tom hurried to reassure him. He said 'we' like it wouldn't be Harry that would hypothetically have to go through the ritual._

" _Nothing has to change, Harry. I'm willing to share my knowledge with you if it means that I'll have you by my side, always," he said, with a slight, almost undetectable, beseeching note to his typically calm and removed voice._

 _That offer had been...unexpected. Truth be told, he'd never even considered the possibility that Tom might want him to become immortal, that he was important enough to Tom to want him around, always._

 _It...it tore Harry even further apart._

 _Why did he have to say it like that?_

 _Why did he have to sound so genuine?_

 _How could he feel warm and tingly over Tom's suggestion of creating a Horcrux?_

 _Harry gulped and tried to compose himself. "I- That's not a path I can follow you on," he told him, hating how broken and regretful he sounded. Hating how he couldn't tell him the truth._

 _Tom's reaction was instantaneous. His face closed off, and his grey eyes hardened and momentarily flashed red._

" _And what does that mean for us?"_

 _Harry sighed and ran his fingers through his hair._

" _It means- It means that you get to decide if making more Horcruxes is more important than me—more important than us and our future. You get to decide if shredding your soul and your mind is worth losing me over," he whispered, softly but resolutely. "You get to decide if your fear of death is stronger than any feelings you have for me," he concluded with a weary smile._

 _There. He'd said it. He'd given Tom his ultimatum._

" _I'm not planning on making any more Horcruxes. Why would you—"_

" _I told you not to lie to me, Tom," Harry snapped, unwilling to hear his manipulative words._

" _How would you even know that? How do you even know about my Horcrux?" Tom hissed, slipping into Parseltongue._

" _Tut-tut, darling. There you go again—thinking you can lie to me. Horcruxes, Tom. I know that you've already made two of them."_

 _Harry wanted to press his luck, he wanted to say that he knew all about his diary and the Gaunt ring. But he didn't, because he was still foolishly hopeful that Tom would choose him._

 _Tom's composure faltered, showing Harry just how unsettled he felt._

" _I masked myself," Tom mumbled, mostly to himself. "Your sight shouldn't have picked up on it."_

 _Harry startled at his words. His sight? What sight? Then it clicked, and he couldn't help but stare at Tom incredulously._

" _You think that I'm clairvoyant? That's how you think I know about your Horcruxes?"_

 _That's what all those knowing glances he'd caught on Tom's face when he'd slipped up once or twice had been about? And those knowing smirks he sometimes gave him when he thought Harry wasn't looking? He thought Harry was psychic?_

 _Well, it was an understandable conclusion to draw, he supposed. He just thought Tom was smarter than that. Not that Harry thought he'd ever be able to figure out that he was Master of Death…._

 _If possible, Tom's expression turned even more perplexed. Eyebrows raised as if to ask 'you're not?'_

 _Death was going to just love this._

 _And then, as if summoned by his thoughts, Death's distracting presence appeared behind Tom._

" _He thinks you're a seer, Harry," Death snorted. "You're not that special," he said blandly, meaning for it to sound insulting, but it was quite the pitiful attempt on his end. Had he forgotten that Harry was the Master of Death? That he was the chosen fucking son of Magic? That was pretty damn special in Harry's book._

 _Harry wanted to roll his eyes at Death but clenched his jaw instead._

" _By the way," Death said once he saw that he got no reaction out of Harry. "Kudos for finally addressing the Horcrux issue. Although, if you want my constructive criticism, I'd say that you could have handled this better—with more cunning and finesse, perhaps?"_

 _If it were possible to strangle Death... Well, if it were possible, he'd have done it centuries ago._

" _It doesn't really matter how I know, Tom. Just that I know," he said, focusing his attention back on the matter at hand. "The ball is in your court now."_

 _Tom sneered and the muggle expression._

" _You can't seriously mean to give me another ultimatum," Tom snarled, his anger back just as quickly as it had disappeared. "I'm offering you eternal life, Harry! I'm willing to give you what everyone else would sever several limbs for. And your answer is for me to choose between you and my Horcruxes?"_

" _I don't need nor want to be immortal, Tom. And I'm not asking you to get rid of your existing Horcruxes. All I'm asking is that you don't make any more of them," Harry clarified as if it would make an ounce of difference to him._

" _You can't ask that of me," Tom spat, eyes rapidly flashing between red and grey._

 _Merlin, was that really so inconceivable to him?_

 _Harry tilted his chin._

" _I can and I have," he asserted. "Tom, you already made two Horcruxes. You've secured your immortality twice-over. Why is it so important to make six? Why can't you be content with what you've already achieved?"_

 _Harry was on the verge of begging-and he'd do it, he'd get on his knees and beg if he thought that it'd make a difference. But he knew Tom too well and wouldn't waste time demeaning himself._

 _Tom was back to narrowing his eyes suspiciously._

" _Six? Six is awfully specific, Harry. How do you know that when I haven't even decided on it yet?"_

 _Thinking on his feet, Harry shrugged and said, "You're strangely superstitious for a wizard, but that's understandable given your upbringing. Seven is a powerful number, and I know you. It's not that big of a leap to make, to think that you'd want to have a total of seven pieces, that you'd want to go further than any wizard before you."_

" _Beautiful save, Harry," Death mocked him, but Harry paid him no mind, too focused on the myriad emotions that flitted across Tom's face. "But judging by the death glare on young Tommy's face you were better off leaving out that upbringing bit. Not exactly the best moment to remind the lad of the orphanage."_

 _Tom closed his eyes and turned away from him, and that's when Harry's heart broke beyond repair. That's when he knew that Tom wouldn't choose him._

 _He wanted to flee the room—wanted to cry and scream and beg Tom to choose him._

 _But he stood tall and as unmoving as a statue, solid and unbending. He would not give in. He would stand by his choice because any other outcome was too disastrous to even contemplate._

 _If he fell any further under Tom's thrall…. No, the implications were too much to handle. He couldn't feel this way for the monster he knew Tom would become. He couldn't give Voldemort any power over the Master of Death._

" _Why are you doing this to us, Harry?" Tom breathed, sounding lost._

" _Because they will destroy you, Tom. And I can't stand by and watch that happening to you. I won't. I'll have no part in the mutilation of your soul."_

 _Tom shook his head, already too far in denial for Harry to save him._

" _I found nothing that indicated any impairment," Tom started, but Harry didn't have it in him to listen._

" _They will destroy you," he repeated, stronger, more forcefully this time. "Trust me, Tom. Making any more Horcruxes will lead to the one outcome you're trying to avoid."_

 _Tom's shoulders tensed, his body trembling almost indistinctly, but Harry saw it—saw the way Tom was trying to hold himself together._

" _I- I need to think," Tom mumbled, still looking away from Harry._

 _Tom might think that he was undecided. He might even delude himself into thinking that he was honestly taking Harry's ultimatum under consideration. But Harry knew better._

 _He knew because of the way Tom's shoulders were set._

 _He knew because of the way Tom couldn't meet his eyes._

 _Knew because of the loss he suddenly felt washing over him._

 _Their bright and untamable connection was coming undone, hanging on a single thread that was waiting to be cut through._

 _The decision was already made. All that was left was for Tom to choose how to break it to him. All that was left was for Tom to decide how he was going to deliver the final blow._

 _Suddenly, all Harry wanted was to crawl into his bed and cry, cry and never stop crying._

" _Alright," he managed to choke out, because what else was left to say?_

 _Tom hovered next to the door as if he wanted to add something, but then he was gone without another word, and the first tears started spilling down Harry's cheeks._

 _Harry expected Death to say something hurtful and inappropriate, instead, in an uncharacteristic show of compassion, he appeared next to him and put a hand on his shoulder, silently lending him strength._

" _I lost him," he mouthed, unable to make a sound._

 _Death simply squeezed his shoulder, internally rueing the day they'd ever decided to step foot into that decade._

 _ **.**_

 **.**

 **.**

" _Did you hear that Riddle has finally dropped that mudblood? Ravenclaw Stacy said that she caught…."_

" _What was Tom thinking? Stevenson is sooo handsome. I'd give anything for him to…."_

" _You will never believe who Riddle was found snogging in the broom cupboard last night. Haymitch said that some Ravenclaw bint found him with his pants around his ankles. Do you reckon it's true? Stevenson must be taking it…."_

" _Poor Harry. I really thought that they'd last, you know? He must be devastated. Do you think we should try and cheer…."_

" _I reckon that Stevenson ended it. Did you not see the way Tom used to look at him?"_

" _...think that it's brilliant. They're both available now. Two boys as handsome as they are had no business seeing each other."_

" _...say yes if I ask him out? Maybe it's too soon? I don't want to step on Riddle's toes."_

" _I heard it from June, who heard it from Bethany, who overheard Stacy and Derek whispering at breakfast…"_

 _Harry didn't know why he'd even bothered going to classes._

 _All he'd heard about all day was the way Tom had been caught with his pants around his ankles in a broom cupboard with some bird sucking his cock. On and on the gossip whirled, and pitying looks following him everywhere he went._

 _She'd probably been horrible at it._

 _He probably had to imagine it was Harry just to get his dick up, Harry thought viciously._

 _Tom hadn't looked at him once in the past week, not even today, after what he'd done, but why would he when he hadn't even bothered ending it with him like a decent fucking person?_

 _No, instead he'd cheated on him, allowing the gossip mill to let Harry know that he'd made his decision._

 _He'd known that it was going to happen—had known that Tom would never choose him over his precious Horcruxes. He'd just thought that Tom had more respect for him than that._

 _How fucking delusional he'd been._

 _So it was done. They were done. They were over._

 _He was fucking pathetic._

 _Not even Voldemort wanted him._

 _Fuck, he was going to cry. He was going to cry. He was going to cry._

 _It hurt. It hurt so much he could barely breathe._

 _His chest hurt, his throat burned, his eyes stung, and his heart was shattered._

 _Broken._

 _Tom had managed to break him into a million little pieces—and Harry knew that the pieces would never fit together again._

 _Young Tom had done what Voldemort hadn't been able to do—what decades of fucking depression had not managed to do—he'd broken him._

 _It was over._

 _He'd never kiss him again._

 _He'd never feel his pianist fingers running through his hair._

 _He'd never wake up and watch Tom as he slept._

 _Tom would never make him eat his vegetables again._

 _He'd never feel that irreplaceable pleasure of being inside him—of moving in sync as they sought to fall off the edge._

 _He'd never argue with him for the sake of arguing._

 _He'd never give him that look again, that coy smile that promised him so much._

 _Merlin. It fucking hurt._

 _Voldemort had defeated him after all._

 _ **.**_

 **.**

 **.**

" _I know what you're thinking, Harry. You must have completely lost your mind if you're truly considering that," Death scolded him rather harshly._

 _It had been a month since he and Tom had severed all ties to each other, and it didn't hurt any less than it did when the wound was still fresh._

 _How had he allowed himself to fall so deeply in love with such a monster? How could he have done this to himself?_

" _It's not like I'm going to do it," Harry told him without the usual bite in his tone. In fact, he sounded disturbingly subdued._

" _Won't you?" Death asked him dubiously. "You've been thinking about it for the past week," he pointed out. "That's a lot of pondering for someone so sure they won't crawl back to their ex-lover."_

 _Harry closed his eyes, a pained look coming over his face._

" _He's a monster," is what he said, because what else was he to say?_

" _But you still love him." It wasn't a question._

 _Harry dropped his forehead to his bent knee and gulped. He could hardly deny that truth when it was written all over his face. "He made his choice," he said instead without looking up._

" _And there is still time for you to change yours, although I would strongly advise you against it."_

 _Harry's head suddenly shot up, and he looked pleadingly at his friend. "Don't I deserve to be happy, Death? Don't I deserve to be with the person I love?"_

" _And do you honestly believe that being with Lord Voldemort will make you happy? Not now, but in the long-run, do you truly see yourself being happy with the monster he's becoming?"_

 _Harry clenched his jaw and turned away from him and stayed silent for a long time._

" _I have to obliviate him—everyone," Harry declared after a while, more decisive than he'd felt in months. "I just wish I could obliviate him from my own memories."_

 _Death probably wanted to point out that he could easily remove his memories for him if he asked nicely enough. But he didn't, because he knew that Harry didn't want to forget the boy that he'd fallen in love with._

" _That's a solid plan," Death said instead. "Are we time-jumping or…?"_

" _No," Harry said, his tone hard and cold. "I'm done messing with time."_

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 _Harry was frantically pacing back and forth in their spacious living-room, his features twisted in an eerie mixture of fury and panic, while his idiot husband, Sirius Orion Black, watched him with a weary, and irritatingly stubborn expression._

 _It would have all been fairly amusing were it not for the situation itself, and the fact that Harry's eyes were glowing a terrifying shade of green._

 _Sirius tried to shrug off the guilt that was quickly building inside his chest, clutching cuttingly around his conscience, but the rough state Harry was in made that rather hard for him to accomplish._

 _Sirius ran a hand through his long, dishevelled hair and sighed._

" _Harry—" he started to say, but Harry shot him a glare that swiftly shut his mouth, rendering him silent once more._

 _Suddenly, Harry stopped pacing and turned to Sirius with a heartbroken expression on his handsome face._

" _Why are you doing this to me?" he asked him in a broken whisper, his voice hoarse and thick with unrestrained distress._

 _Sirius flinched and wrung his bottom lip between his sharp teeth._

" _This has nothing to do with you, Harry," he mumbled, looking apologetic even as he said it._

 _Harry chuckled humorlessly and shook his head in disbelief. "Nothing to do with me?" he asked him. "I'm your fucking husband, Sirius," he snapped, his eyes hard and accusing. "Or have you conveniently forgotten that small detail?"_

 _Sirius closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm down the war raging in his heart._

 _Harry knew that Sirius didn't want to let this get between them, but what was he to do? Should he just let him walk to his death out of a misguided sense of loyalty to the Order?_

 _Harry also knew that this wasn't a fight Sirius could back out of, not when all his friends were at risk. He would never be able to forgive himself if something happened to them while he was hiding away._

 _Once Sirius opened his eyes, Harry instantly knew that he'd already lost the argument. Sirius had that stubborn, resolved look in his eyes—steel encased in a roaring fire—that Harry knew was absolute. No amount of persuasion would be enough to change his mind._

 _Harry wanted to rage and scream, he wanted to break down and cry, and maybe he also wanted to bind Sirius with some heavy chains and lock him in their basement._

 _Instead, Harry glared hatefully at his reckless husband and waited for him to continue spilling his pitiful excuses._

 _Sirius cleared his throat and glanced shiftily away from him, before allowing his gaze to rest determinedly on Harry's face._

" _I understand that you're worried about me and that you're scared for my-" Sirius started to say but Harry cut him off with a harsh scoff._

" _Scared?" Harry growled. "You understand that I'm_ _ **scared**_ _for you? For your safety?" he clarified mockingly. "Well, that's alright then, isn't it Siri? Because you_ _ **understand**_ _that I'm fucking terrified—that I'm absofuckinglutly terrified," he snarled. "You understand that, do you? And does your selfish brain also comprehend that I'm going absolutely mad? Do you_ _ **understand**_ _the constant fear and distress I endure, day in and day out, at the possibility that you won't come back to me from some buggered up mission?"_

 _Sirius winced, feeling ashamed of himself for putting the man he loved through this horrible pain, but he grit his teeth together and gathered all the resolve he could muster to make his husband see reason._

" _We're at war, Harry," he told him calmly. "Am I supposed to sit at home twiddling my thumbs while I let all my friends fight Voldemort on their own?" he asked, his tone turning frustrated. "That's not who I am," he said with more conviction._

" _You know that's not what I'm asking," Harry shot back, thinking of his father and pregnant mother. "But this mission is suicidal, you must see that," he pleaded assertively. "Neither of you should be going, especially not with Lily being in the condition she's in."_

 _Sirius clenched his jaw and looked away from him. "Dumbledore assigned us this mission for a reason, Harry. Who else do you suppose we send in?"_

" _Fuck Dumbledore!" he hissed. "None of you should be going! I already told you that it's a fucking trap, Sirius. Why won't you listen to me? If you're going to keep on insisting that you want to keep your trice damned mortality, then the least you can do is make sure that you don't place yourself in life-threatening situations. If not for your own sake, then at least for mine!"_

 _Sirius groaned and had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping at him._

" _You know that we know it's a trap, Harry. But what else are we meant to do? We can't pass up this opportunity simply because we're scared of getting captured or dying," he said condescendingly, and that was about all of Harry's patience used up._

" _Godric's buggering impotent cock!" Harry exclaimed, rather loudly, his frustration evident not only because of his colourful choice of words but also because of the dangerous pulse of magic he'd just released, which rattled their whole house._

 _Sirius gulped and took an unconscious step back while his inner beast cowed and whined submissively._

" _You're such a fucking Gryffindor!" Harry screamed accusingly, which was unmistakably meant as an insult._

 _Sirius was tempted to point out that Harry had been sorted into Gryffindor twice, which technically made Harry more Gryffindor than Sirius, but he wisely held his tongue._

" _Do you expect to waltz in there and get a fair duel?" Harry asked him, absolutely incensed. "Are you all so naive and mad that you don't believe that Voldemort will have ensured your demise, one way or another? Besides Dumbledore, you're his number one enemies, and he wants you all in the fucking ground, Sirius—desperately. You're trying to outwit a Dark Lord who is known to have five extra contingency plans! So yes, I'm asking you not to go because you're all going to fucking die!" he shrieked very much unlike himself, leaving his chest heaving with heavy breaths and unrestrained fury._

 _It was better to be angry because if Harry gave in to the sadness and worry he'd break down and he won't be able to pick himself back up again._

 _Dark grey eyes narrowed angrily and flashed with resentment and jealousy._

" _Godric fucking Gryffindor! Even after all these years, you still think that the sun shines out of his arse," Sirius spat venomously. "Sometimes I wonder whose side you're actually on."_

 _Harry's eyes widened before they narrowed into unforgiving slits. "I'm on no one's fucking side, Black. Especially not Tom's," he growled, his eyes dancing with an unspoken warning as his magic started swirling around the room, ready to strike._

 _Sirius ignored the familiar magic pressing against him and released a sinister chuckle. "There it is again, calling him Tom like he's not a raving-mad Dark Wizard that needs to be put down. Do you even want him to be defeated?" he asked him evenly, smoothly, much too smoothly. "We both know that you're more than capable of doing the deed yourself, but you just won't do it, will you? You'd rather let our world rot than draw your wand at your precious Tom."_

 _Harry sucked in a sharp breath, and the magic oozing out of him swiftly became oppressive, causing Sirius to shift uncomfortably in his spot. But Sirius knew that his husband wasn't going to hurt him so he stood his ground._

 _Harry grit his teeth together and tried to calm his temper._

" _I know you're picking an argument because it makes it easier for you to run off to your death, but I'd watch my next words very carefully if I were you," Harry warned him in that voice that belonged to the Master of Death._

" _No, I mean it," Sirius insisted, rather foolishly. "You and Death have the power to end all this by morning light, but instead you watch the horror happening around us as if it were some entertaining muggle T.V show," Sirius accused without an ounce of regret._

 _If Sirius was acting, he was putting on a pretty good fucking show._

 _The next second, all the glass within close vicinity shattered into teeny-tiny shards, causing Sirius to duck and cover his face._

" _Yes, sure," Harry hissed through his teeth. "Let's explain to the world how the nobody Harry Black single-handedly defeated Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Let's play around with the balance of things and let the Master of Death and Death himself solve all the problems mortals create for themselves," Harry mocked with a dangerous glint in his eyes._

 _Harry's magic swirled erratically around the room, just barely contained enough to not destroy their whole house._

" _So now you're blaming us for everything Voldemort is doing?" Sirius spat._

" _I blame the leader of your precious Light faction, Black. I blame the whole fucking wizarding system," he growled. "Who do you think created the monster that you all rally against? Or do you suppose that he was simply born this rotten?"_

 _For a brief moment, Sirius seemed taken aback. Harry never spoke about Voldemort, and even when he'd informed him of their sordid history, all he'd said was, 'We were in love once, Tom and I, but it hadn't been enough for him and in the end he still betrayed me'._

 _To hear Harry suddenly revealing any sort of information about Voldemort was probably rather surprising to his husband, especially since they had both avoided all mentions of him since the day Harry had revealed their past to him._

" _If he's such a fucking victim than why didn't you save him, Harry?"_

 _Harry took in a sharp breath and Sirius winced inwardly at the blow he'd just dealt his husband, knowing that he'd gone too far._

 _Instead of getting angry, Harry smirked, his eyes gaining a tint of blackness around his glowing irises._

" _You should know better than to try and manipulate me, darling," he drawled lazily. "I think you forgot who you're married to," he said as he took a step towards Sirius, who found himself unable to move._

 _Growing slightly wary of his uncontrolled husband, Sirius tried to back-track. "Harry, I didn't mean that," he told him sincerely, putting his plan to enrage his husband on hold. He knew that it wasn't Harry's fault that Voldemort hadn't been able to be saved. Whatever had been between them had been genuine, on Harry's side, at least. It had been Voldemort's choice to walk the path that he was on._

" _Oh, I know that, Siri," he assured him with an amused chuckle that sent shivers of dread down Sirius' spine. "But I'm quite done with you idolising the floor that old coot walks on," he said, taking another step toward Sirius, then another, until he was standing right in front of him, their faces only inches apart._

" _Do you want to know who Dumbledore really is, Sirius?" he breathed seductively, the temperature in the room turning cold. "Do you want to know what hides behind grandfatherly smiles and twinkling eyes? Do you want me to tell you who Voldemort really is? Not the disfigured monster Dumbledore has made you believe in, but the person beneath the serpentine mask he wears? Would you like me to wreck everything you believe in, dear husband mine?" he asked him, his soft tone a harsh contrast against his cruel and cutting words._

 _Sirius gulped and tried to look away from those dangerous eyes he loved so much but found himself captivated._

" _Did you know that your beloved leader used to practice the dark arts with his lover Grindelwald before an argument between them led to his sister's death?" he asked him, his smirk growing ever wider. "Of course, no one knew whose spell it was that hit poor Ariana, but it is an indisputable fact that young Albus was responsible for his sister after their mother's passing, and he failed her rather spectacularly, if I may say so myself. First, he abandoned her to go gallivanting around Europe with his lover in search of immortality—yes, I see how perfectly selfless that was of him—and then he killed her. Indirectly or not, Dumbledore was responsible for Ariana's death."_

 _Sirius's breath hitched and his eyes grew wide._

" _But you didn't know that, did you? Oh no, Albus wouldn't want his perfectly crafted image to get tarnished. He went through great—and very questionable—lengths, to ensure no one finds out about his shady past."_

 _Sirius sighed, not knowing what to think._

" _Everyone's allowed to make mistakes, Harry," Sirius said, thinking back on all the mistakes he's made himself, some of which he'd never be able to atone for._

" _I agree with you," Harry allowed. "One should not be judged for the errors of their youth. But did you know that Dumbledore purposefully waited to defeat his old lover until Grindelwald was in his peak? Why? Why because that way Dumbles would receive more recognition and power. Defeating a Dark Lord before he'd destroyed the world wouldn't get him the recognition he wanted, the recognition and power he misguidedly thought he was the only one capable of wielding. Like a snake, he manipulated his way into power, just like any other one of those slimy politicians you hate so much. Yes, how very humble of him to reject the position of a puppet Minister but graciously accepting the positions of Headmaster, Supreme Mugwump, and Chief Warlock," he listed with heavy sarcasm._

 _Sirius frowned, torn between wanting to believe his husband and his blind loyalty towards his former Headmaster._

 _Could Dumbledore really have allowed a war to go on just to further his position in the world? Was the man he'd always idolized capable of such damaging manipulations?_

 _It was sickening to even think about._

" _Beware, Sirius. Albus Dumbledore is nothing more than a conniving, master manipulator who lost himself in the game a few decades back. I assure you that individually you mean absolutely nothing to him. You are all but pawns for him to move around as he pleases. In his eyes, your life doesn't even come close to comparing to his 'greater good'," he hissed, spitting out the words as if they were poison on his tongue._

 _Alright, so maybe Harry had some deeply buried resentment towards the Headmaster, but could you blame him?_

" _Tell me, has he given you vague details about where and how to attack, without offering you a way out of there if you're in a pinch? Hoping you would miraculously make your way back, victorious? Tell me, is the old man joining you on this most important suicide mission? Did he even deign to inform you why this mission is so important, besides getting to take down some inner circle followers that will be replaced by morning? Do you really believe that there isn't another reason behind why he's sending you there?" Harry asked him somewhat jeeringly._

" _Think, Sirius," he insisted. "Really think about it. Do you know why you're going on this mission? Think about the way he changes the subject or the way he outright dismisses you when you ask for details on what's happening. He says something along the lines of, 'You don't have to worry yourself with such details just yet, my dear boy. All will be revealed in due time,'" Harry mocked in what he thought was a rather impressive imitation of Dumbledore. "Or how about, 'I do not wish to burden you with such dark matters, my boy'."_

 _Sirius didn't know what to say. In truth, he didn't know why this mission was so important to Dumbledore. He had avoided answering any enquiries. In fact, he'd said something rather similar to what Harry had just parroted. 'Sirius, my dear boy,' Dumbledore had said. 'I do not wish to burden you with the darker details. When the time is right, all will be revealed. I know you won't disappoint me.'_

 _Sirius swallowed the bitter bile that rose in his throat and went lax against his husband's magic._

" _I don't know," he admitted shamefully. "I don't know anything at all it seems."_

 _But Harry wasn't done tearing into Dumbledore._

" _Do you want to know what kind of man Dumbledore really is? If he is so great, then why did he abandon a twelve-year-old boy to an abusive orphanage that was located in the middle of a muggle war zone, ensuring that he would further traumatise an already unstable child? Why did he send him there even after the boy begged and pleaded with him to be sent anywhere else? Why did your precious Light leader treat said boy with such suspicion and derision throughout his early years at Hogwarts simply because he could speak to snakes and had stolen a few items from his bullies? Why did he condemn a lonely child who was only seeking affection and a semblance of justice? Who was he to decide that small child was unredeemable? And in what world did he think that treating someone with his particular attributes like an abomination wouldn't make him strive to prove to him just how abominable he could become? Why did Dumbledore blacklist him after he graduated Hogwarts, ensuring that even with his connections and record-breaking N.E.W.T.S he couldn't find any respectable employment? And that's not even touching on the fact that the bastard purposely placed me in an abusive household so that I'd be moulded into the perfect sacrificial lamb. That's not touching on the fact that he left you to rot in Azkaban for twelve years just so that I'd be sure to stay in the aforementioned abusive household. And please, do not get me started on all the dangers I faced throughout my first time at Hogwarts."_

 _Sirius's mind was reeling with all the new information he'd just received, hardly able to keep up with Harry's tangent._

" _Tell me, Sirius, what did your precious Light faction ever do for Tom?" he asked him rhetorically because it was quite clear what the answer was._

" _Tom was first shunned by the Muggles for being different. Then he was shunned by most of our magical community for being a Slytherin, and then, he was shunned within his own house for being a muggle-born. No one has ever simply cared for him for who he was."_

 _Sirius sighed and briefly closed his eyes, before wearily opening them again to show grey orbs filled with a renewed fight._

" _Maybe that's all true, Harry, but I'm not fighting in this war for Dumbledore, and everything you've said, while horrible, does not excuse what Voldemort has become and has done to our world."_

" _Maybe so," Harry said through gritted teeth, "but do you know what it is you're fighting for? Beyond simply being against Voldemort, that is."_

 _Sirius once again looked beyond confused, causing Harry to roll his eyes._

" _While Tom's methods are wrong and I wish beyond anything else that he'd chosen a different path to accomplish his goals, at least he cares for Magic—all Magic—which cannot be said for the Light faction you've allied yourself with, a faction who are doing everything in their power to suppress large branches of Magic that are essential to the balance of our world," he growled, his calm demeanour quickly turning aggressive again as he thought of all the damage they would cause in the near future._

 _Not knowing what to say, and not quite ready to admit that Harry was making a lot of sense, Sirius settled for his typical misguided cheek. "All that- You never mention anything before, and now you say all that just so you wouldn't have to admit that you don't want to kill Voldemort?"_

" _I don't!" Harry exploded. "Excuse me for not wanting to kill the man I used to love. Excuse me for not wanting to kill him—again. Excuse me for not wanting to be the damned saviour of the world—again! Excuse me for not wanting you to Apparate into a Merlin fucking damned trap and die—again! Excuse me for loving my arsehole of a husband!"_

 _Before Sirius knew what he was doing, an unexpected choice of words came tumbling out of his mouth. "After this mission is done, I'll quit the Order," he told Harry, surprising him with how sincere he sounded. "I promise," he vowed, pleading with his eyes for Harry to believe him. "After this mission, we'll talk to Jamie and Lily and we'll hightail it to the U.S or to Timbuktu, or somewhere equally as exotic. We can even go save koala bears and build them an impenetrable forest, that's what you told Minnie you wanted to do after graduation, right?"_

 _All the fury and indignity Harry had felt only seconds before melted away from him, unable to ignore his husband's puppy eyes and that ridiculous reminder of the excuse he'd dead-panned when his Head of House had asked him to join the Oder._

' _While I feel rather flattered by your invitation, Professor,' he'd said, not sounding in the least bit flattered. 'I have made plans to save the Koalas and several other non-magical species from extinction by building them a safe haven.'_

 _It's safe to assume that old Minny's friendly-but-always-stern looking face had faltered and she'd started blinking owlishly at him. She'd looked between him and Sirius, sputtered something about Voldemort being a more pressing concern, to which Harry had just shrugged and replied. 'Now that's rather unfair of you, Professor. If you asked the koalas, they would argue that their plight is just as pressing, if not more so. I must say that I'm disappointed in you, Professor. I'd never have taken you for the discriminating type.'_

 _Suffice it to say that good ol' Minny had never bothered recruiting him again._

 _Harry's lips twitched into an involuntary half-smile at the memory, and that caused Sirius's face to light up like a Merlin damned Yule tree._

 _While on any other occasion Harry would have appreciated his husband's attempt at a compromise, it didn't change the fact that he had a bad feeling about this mission, and if he'd learned anything at all, it was to always trust his gut._

 _Sirius must have noticed the direction his thoughts had taken because he released a long sigh and ran an agitated hand through his hair, a horrible habit he'd picked up from him._

" _I know you don't want me to go, and now that you've pointed out a few things I've been too thick to realise, I don't fancy walking into a trap myself. But there is no way your parents are going to abandon this mission, and that means I can't abandon them."_

 _Harry looked at him for a long stretch of time, so long that Sirius probably thought that he wouldn't get any answer at all, but then Harry suddenly closed his eyes and gave him an understanding nod._

" _Alright then," he said as he opened his eyes, which were once again back to their normal emerald shade. "But if you die, I'll resurrect you just so that I can send you back into the grave."_

 _ **.**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **.**_

 _Sirius had gone on the mission just like he said he would, and it was Death's turn to watch Harry anxiously pace across his living room._

 _To Death, the solution was rather obvious. If Harry was so worried about his bonded husband, he should simply Apparate over there, and Apparate Sirius out of the death-zone. As far as he was concerned, Harry had gone through the gruesome trouble of branding the Transportation Rune onto his ribcage for precisely such an occasion._

 _But it was becoming more apparent that Harry wasn't going to rescue his beloved husband, and while Death usually understood Harry's mind better than him, he couldn't quite follow his reasoning on this one._

" _I don't get it," Death said with his unique attempt at a conversational tone._

 _Harry ignored him because he really did not want to have the conversation hurtling his way._

 _Obviously, Death wasn't deterred by his silence._

" _Why don't you just go and get him instead of walking a hole into your floor? Or better yet, why don't you kill off Riddle yourself? You could find a way to do it without drawing attention to yourself. You don't have to go after the Horcruxes. Killing him at this point in time won't alter anything too drastically. You know that."_

 _And there it was, that conversation.`_

" _Can we please not do this right now?" Harry begged him._

 _Death tilted his head. "And when do you want to do this? When your husband is dead and gone?"_

 _Harry shot him a glare that would have had lesser beings bearing their neck submissively._

" _He's not going to die," Harry growled defensively._

 _Death sighed and shook his head at his friend's denial. "And now you're back to lying to yourself. I thought you were over that phase of yours. Darling, when Death tells you that your husband is going to die, you believe him," he intoned as if he were talking to a child._

 _Harry's face went chalk white, not exactly a complexion that did him any favours._

 _Suddenly it dawned on Death—the reason for Harry's reluctance—and he couldn't quite believe it._

" _No," Death gasped, beautiful azure eyes wide behind his hood. "You're not still in love with that wretch, are you?" he asked him, the question coming out as an exasperated groan._

 _What was it about Tom fucking Riddle that had Harry so damn devoted to him? How is it that he couldn't let him go?_

 _Harry had mourned lovers before, but he always picked himself up. So what was so different about Tom fucking Riddle?_

 _Harry looked like a niffler who'd been caught stealing some precious treasures._

" _I- I-" he stuttered, words failing him, and that was all the answer Death really needed._

" _Harry," Death said with the patience of a saint. "Sirius is not a David or any other lover you've had. You won't simply be able to apparate away from his corpse and forget about him. Do you remember when you lost Mordred? Do you remember that grief? That's what you're about to face, Harry—years and years of unending grief and guilt. Losing Mordred broke a part of you that you've still not recovered, and I dread the moment you'll lose your Sirius, because I don't know that your heart can take any more pain, not after Tom broke all that was left of you. Don't do this, Harry. Not because you're too cowardly to face the monster your heart still longs for."_

 _He was right. Of course, he was._

 _That didn't change the fact that he was petrified of facing Tom._

 _He'd gone through great lengths to seem ordinary to the world—had even gone so far as to place a permanent but mild notice-me-not on himself so that people would dismiss him even if he did somehow slip in his act._

 _Was staying hidden in his hole really worth losing Sirius?_

 _No. No, it wasn't._

 _But it was too late._

 _He'd arrived just in time to watch Bellatrix Lestrange fire the Killing Curse towards his husband._

 _He was too late to save Sirius. Too late to save himself from a lifetime of misery and grief._

 _He couldn't move—couldn't tear his eyes away from his husband's falling corpse._

 _This was it—the moment Death had just warned him about._

 _He could distantly hear Lily and James screaming, could hear Bellatrix's mad laughter, could hear some of the Death Eaters cheering._

 _Damn Dumbledore and his manipulations._

 _Damn Sirius for his loyalty._

 _Damn Tom for his need for control and power._

 _Damn himself for being a coward._

 _The next second all the Death Eaters screamed as they burned up in purple flames._

 _Sirius was gone. Just like before. Just like Ron, Ginny, Hermoine and Teddy. Just like Mordred and Merlin. Just like so many other people he's loved and lost._

 _Once all the Death Eaters turned to ashes, Harry turned around and walked away without having uttered a single sound._

 _He was numb._

 _He heard his parents shout for him to stop, but he ignored them._

 _Sirius was dead and his parents would soon follow—and he'd be left alone once more._

 _It was best to leave. It was best not to witness._

 _He was done. Once and for all._

 _He couldn't take any more loss._

 _But then, before he could leave that tomb, the Dark Lord himself appeared before him in all his temporary immortal glory._

 _He'd dreamt about the moment when he'd face Tom again. Dreamt about it so often that he'd gone weeks without sleep just to avoid those specific thoughts._

 _He'd imagined it differently—thought he'd feel more fury and longing—but all he felt was numb, a numbness that threatened to swallow him back into the empty pit he'd only just crawled out of._

 _Tom's red eyes were assessing him, curious and not at all enraged that he'd just cost him a couple of good Death Eaters. He knew that his appearance would have triggered something in Tom, an itching sense of slipping remembrance._

 _Harry knew Tom well enough to know that since he'd been blessed with perfect recollection, such a feeling would irritate him to no end. And Tom was smart enough to realise that there was magic in play._

" _Harry Black. Sirius Black's bonded, I presume?"_

 _His voice was dark, a silken hiss that would have usually driven Harry mad with need—but all Harry felt was numb._

" _I go by many names," he heard himself say with an empty tone that was all too familiar to him._

 _He was hollow—numb—dead in the only way he could be._

 _Tom chuckled, and it was probably the only genuine sound of humour he'd released in a very long time._

" _I suppose I cannot blame you for my loyal Death Eater's demise. Bellatrix had just murdered your husband," he said conversationally. "But I am rather curious as to how you managed to do it so beautifully, or how you got past my wards, for that matter. I also wonder why I've not heard much of you besides your regrettable nuptials with that blood traitor."_

 _Harry looked at him blankly, his emerald eyes devoid of life, just like his husband's corpse._

" _I'm not yours to know about, Tom. That privilege has been lost to you a long time ago," he said, earning him the slight widening of Tom's red eyes._

 _Before anything else could be said, Harry was gone, together with Sirius' corpse, but not before he'd sent the rest of the order back to their headquarters, including his parents._

 _They may all die soon, but they would not die today._

* * *

 **29th November, 1941**

 **One of the many corridors in Hogwarts**

It had been two days since Grindelwald and his men attacked Hogsmeade, robbing the student-body of their sweet innocence and naivety. In a few short hours, all houses, no matter their colours, had their blindfolds ripped from their eyes, causing them to age beyond their years and forcing them to face the reality that awaits them beyond the safety of Hogwarts' walls.

Silence haunted the castle as students and teachers all mourned the peace, those days spent worrying about essays and grades. They mourned the easy days, because now…now their worries were that of a more profound nature.

Yes, they had known about the war—about the violence and useless murders.

They had read about it in the newspapers and had listened to the adults discuss it. They had even discussed it among themselves, naively debating the politics and ethics of war. But it's different now that they knew what it felt like to be terrified of not living through the next moment.

None of them had been prepared for the harsh truth, that, no, they were not exempt from the horror and bloodshed.

To those who wished to conquer the world, it didn't matter that they are nought but children. Their deaths would be considered collateral damage. Yes, even those precious pureblood children. Everyone was expendable.

The war they never thought would reach their shores has come for them, and while it has not taken their lives yet, it has taken something just as precious. The war has taken whatever had been left of their childhood, and none of them would be able to rest until it was all over.

Their futures were no longer bold and tangible. No, their futures were now cast in a shadow of doubt and tainted by the brush of death.

They felt frightened and helpless, but time did not stop and wait for them to process the events. Life continued on at Hogwarts, even with the dark cloud hovering above the tall castle. They had to adjust and move on, however hard and impossible that was.

Thankfully, most of the injured students had been healed and released. There were only a handful of them left that were still recovering in the Hospital Wing—Hadrian and Alphard included.

In a show of great compassion, the Headmaster decided not to cancel classes. _'It's better for all of you to have a distraction from the horrible experience you've had to go through,'_ Dippet had announced at dinner last night. Not that Orion could fault him for his reasoning. It had definitely helped keep his mind off the fact that Harry had yet to wake up, and that Alphard's trip to Harry's subconscious had rendered him mute.

Orion faltered in his step at that thought and sighed dejectedly.

Yes, his cousin had not spoken a single word since the blood ritual, and nothing they said or did was able to jar him out of his shocked state of mind.

At first, Orion thought that something had gone wrong with the ritual, but his father had reassured everyone that their ancestors had accepted their bid for aid and that the ritual had gone well. He'd even said that their Black Family Magics had been almost eager to help, which was highly unusual since Black Family magic was always _difficult_ at best.

Arcturus had been adamant that Harry would wake up, that he just needed time to rest so that his core could replenish itself. Alphard, on the other hand, was working through what he'd seen inside Harry's mind. 'He's processing,' had been Arcturus' exact words, his face showing great concern. If that concern had been for Alphard or Harry, Orion wasn't quite sure, and he hadn't asked.

Orion didn't even want to begin to imagine what Alphard had seen to push him into the state he was in, he couldn't imagine what Harry must have experienced.

While he couldn't deny that he was somewhat curious about Harry's past since he never spoke much about it—at all, actually—he was also tremendously grateful that Alphard had taken his place in the ritual.

Arcturus had tried to reach out to Alphard, had even offered to obliviate him, but that was the only time his cousin had reacted at all. He'd growled and bared his teeth at him before he'd curled back into a ball.

Under any other circumstances, the bewildered look on Arcturus' face would have been comical. Maybe Orion would be able to look back in a few years and laugh about it, but that was still a long while away.

Orion's father had promised them that Hadrian would wake up, but what about Alphard? Would he ever escape the nightmare that he'd trapped himself in?

As Orion stepped into the Hospital Wing, he sighed and rubbed his aching shoulder. All the thinking and worrying he'd been doing was making him unbelievably tense. He needed to take a warm bath and loosen up a bit, but he had so much work to finish…. Maybe he could ask the matron if she had a potion for him?

Orion looked up from his feet, and the first thing he noticed was the mess.

Several potions had been spilt, and there were still bits of broken vials lying around everywhere.

"Good evening, Madame Weaver," he greeted the frazzled looking woman with a curious smile.

"Oh! Good evening, Mr. Black," she said, her expression turning warm at the sight of him. "I apologise for the mess, but it seems like Mr. Peverell has regained enough strength for accidental magic. He destroyed all my potion vials and some windows just a few minutes ago," she explained as she repaired the vials and poured the potions back in. "Thank Merlin, I released all the other students earlier today, so no one got hurt. Poor dear, I don't want to imagine what he must have been dreaming about to have such a violent reaction, but I gave him some Dreamless Sleep potion to calm him down. It won't do his core any good if he overexerts himself before he's fully healed."

"But that means he'll be up soon, right?" he asked her, feeling his excitement bubbling.

"Yes, it shouldn't be long until he wakes up now," she grinned at the boy, knowing very well how worried he must be about his friend. Hadrian Peverell was a lucky young man to have so many people that care about him, and from what she's heard about his heroic defence of Hogsmeade, the boy deserves it.

"That's good," Orion nodded, grinning broadly, unable to hide his relief. But his grin quickly slipped off his face when his thoughts turned to Alphard. "And my cousin? How's our other favourite patient doing? Has he said anything?" he asked her, and the matron regretfully shook her head.

"He still won't talk or eat, and he barely sleeps. I offered him Dreamless Sleep when he woke up screaming from a nightmare, but he won't accept anything from me," she admitted. "I'm hoping that once Mr. Peverell is awake, he'll be able to reach out to Mr. Black," she confessed.

Orion gave her a small, understanding nod. That's what he hoped too.

"Would you mind if I go in and see them?" he asked her with his signature puppy dog eyes.

"Put those eyes away, Mr. Black," she chuckled, "I doubt I could stop you even if I wanted to," she sighed, giving him a friendly roll of the eyes.

"I won't be long," he promised before rushing off.

Orion slowly opened the door to the private room Dumbledore had transfigured for them and sighed at the expected sight that greeted him.

There were two beds in the room now, one for Harry, and one for Alphard.

Harry was lying on his bed, looking more peaceful than he'd ever seen the boy look, while Alphard was curled into himself with his eyes closed.

"Al?" Orion called out with a soft voice so that he wouldn't startle him, just in case he was awake, but his cousin didn't stir. Not that Orion thought that he would even if he was awake.

Orion slipped into the room and closed the door gently behind him.

He looked at them for a few seconds, wringing his hands together, then he took the empty seat that was placed between their beds. He pulled up his legs and wrapped his hands around his knees.

"You two really need to wake up," he mumbled into the quiet room, dropping his chin onto his knees. "It's really dull without you guys around, so the least you could do is wake up," he grumbled, then frowned at their unmoving bodies. "And don't get me started on Lucretia! She is beside herself with worry, and I'm choosing to blame you two for the fact that she's been rather unbearable to be around. Don't be surprised if she comes by later on to give you both a stern talking to," he warned them, nervously biting his lower lip.

A few moments of peaceful silence passed by, but then Orion's inability to stay quite reared its head.

"Potter's been asking about you, Harry. He'd have visited, but Madame Weaver said that only family was allowed in. Do you hear that, Harry? We're family now. I mean, after Father and Alphard performed Family Magic on you it was pretty obvious that we're…well, family. That reminds me! Why didn't you say that you had Black blood running through your veins, you dolt? You can be such an arse sometimes, you know that? And don't get me started on those Rune Brandings we eyed on your chest. And that Dragon Patronus! I mean, we all knew you were gifted, but Merlin's balls, Harry! What else are you keeping from me, huh? I thought we were best friends, Harry. You better have a good explanation ready for me when you wake up," he threatened half-heartedly.

"Oh, did I mention that nearly the whole school has hailed you as their saviour? You're probably the most popular and well-liked student here. Not that I didn't think you were the King of Hogwarts before, but now that seems to be the consensus. You'll also probably like to know that you're missing quidditch practice. The team is not particularly thrilled with that, but they wish you a quick recovery, even if it's mostly for their own benefit….

"Merlin! You have no idea how tedious it's been, answering everyone's questions about your health, Harry. And you wouldn't believe the number of people that asked me if you're tied in a relationship. I snapped at a Ravenclaw just before I came here. Stupid bint wouldn't get the hint that _no_ , I wouldn't be putting in a good word for her with you. Morgana! You'd think that the house-elves put love potion into the water at breakfast this morning," he moaned, feeling sorry for himself.

"I also need help with my Charms essay, Harry. So you better wake up before next Friday, or I'll be forced to give in a half-"

"Salazar! Will you shut up, Black," snarled a voice, interrupting Orion's monologue.

Orion jumped in his chair and almost toppled out of it. "Who's there?" he called out shakily, pointing and waving his wand around in all directions since he couldn't see anyone.

"Put that wand away before you hurt yourself, Black," spat the voice that sounded a lot like Riddle. Sure enough, a few moments later, Riddle came into sight.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Orion growled protectively.

"Visiting," Tom answered curtly. "Apologies if I startled you, but I couldn't stand to hear another word spilling from your mouth," he said, not sounding the least bit apologetic.

Orion narrowed his eyes and bit back an insult. "Only family is allowed to visit, Riddle," he informed him, crossing his arms over his chest.

"And that's why I was under a disillusionment charm, Black. Please do keep up," he huffed, then started moving closer to Hadrian's bed. "You should really be more aware of your surroundings. I've been following you since your last class," he offhandedly informed him.

Orion growled again and narrowed his eyes at the fourth-year. "Well, that doesn't matter. I'm aware of you now, and I'm not leaving you in here with Harry and Alphard on your own. I need to start my Charms essay, and you're leaving too. Don't test me, Riddle," he warned him when he saw him about to snark something back. "Or I'll sick Madame Weaver on you," he threatened.

Looking completely unintimidated by Orion's threat, Tom cocked his head to the side. "Don't go forgetting who you're talking to, Black. I know you're emotional over Hadrian and your cousin's well being, so I'll let it slide, just this once. But don't let it happen again," he warned him sweetly, sending an apprehensive shiver down Orion's spine.

Orion gulped and shrunk back from the dangerous glint in Riddle's eyes, remembering a bit too late not to piss off the sleeping snake inside Tom.

Before he could start apologising, Riddle changed the subject.

"Does Hadrian usually help you with your Charms homework?" he asked him tonelessly. Orion sputtered and was about to defend himself, but Tom waved him off. "It wasn't meant as an insult, Black. It was simply a question," he told him, almost sounding polite.

Orion felt confused but nodded his head all the same. "Yes, Harry helps me. Charms isn't exactly my strongest subject," he grumbled, his cheeks tinting with an embarrassed blush.

"And Hadrian would feel a measure of guilt about not being available to help you, correct?" Riddle asked, and Orion just shrugged, looking at him like he was sporting a Gryffindor scarf.

"I guess so, but I'm not about to blame him for not helping me with a stupid essay," he defended himself, not seeing where this conversation was going.

"Nonetheless, Hadrian would feel guilty for not performing what he deems as his duty. That's why I'd like to offer you my assistance. I'm quite advanced in Charms. I'm sure I'll be able to provide you with plenty of information on whatever it is you're currently working on."

Orion just stood there gaping, not quite comprehending what he's just heard. It was a known rule that Riddle, while never impolite about it, didn't help others with their studies. Being in Slytherin himself, Orion could understand this. What he didn't understand was this sudden change of heart.

"Why?" he asked, failing miserably at keeping his suspicion and distrust from his tone.

Orion watched as Riddle shifted uneasily on his feet, and for the first time ever, he saw him struggling for words.

"Hadrian, he saved my life during the attack," Riddle admitted, glancing at said boy with an unreadable expression on his face. "I'm not his responsibility, but he still risked his life to save mine. All I wish to do is repay him, and since I was useless in healing him, I want to make sure that he's as comfortable as possible when he's recovered," he told him.

"You're weird, Riddle," was the only response Orion could muster, too shocked over the fact that Tom Riddle almost sounded humane just then.

"Black," he warned him in a dangerously lazy drawl.

"I'm sorry," Orion mumbled, wincing.

"Hadrian would appreciate me helping out those he cares for, no?" Tom snapped, beginning to lose his patience.

"Sure," Orion agreed readily, and it took all his self-control not to cower away from the shorter boy.

"Then it's settled. I'll assist you with your essay," he said, and to Orion's ears, it sounded a lot like a threat. What else could he do but continue nodding his head like a fool?

He missed those days where Riddle was just a nuisance in the background. Before this year, he'd barely spoken to the boy, yet Hadrian had somehow gotten his attention, and by default, it seems that so did Orion.

"Are you coming, Black?" Riddle snapped. "'I've got better things to do this evening than spend it waiting around for you."

Yes, he really missed those days when Tom was just another face in the crowd. Albeit, a face to be cautious around, but nevertheless, just another face.

He had no idea how Cygnus could stomach spending so much time with him.

Later that evening, after Tom had gone through the gruelling process of helping Orion Black with his Charms essay, he found himself in the common room surrounded by his...acquaintances.

Their small group had obviously taken their usual place, claiming the best seats in the common room next to the warm fireplace. Tom sat in his plush, green armchair. Abraxas, Nott, Rosier, and Avery shared the enlarged sofa, while Lestrange and Dolohov awkwardly shared the love seat.

All of them were staring rather subdued at the flickering fire, waiting for one of them to bravely broach the subject they've all been dying to discuss for the past two days.

In the end, it was Augustus Lestrange and his abundant tact that broke the heavy and tense silence between them.

"Are we seriously not going to discuss the battle?" he asked them cautiously, his wary brown eyes trained inquisitively on Tom. "Or Peverell for that matter?" he added, earning himself a sharp warning elbow in the ribs from Dolohov. Augustus flinched at the stinging pain that flared in his ribs, and shot his friend a glare, rubbing at his already bruising flesh.

But he wasn't deterred by Dolohov's warning or the pain. "What? I'm only saying what we've all been thinking," he groused. "I mean, we knew Peverell was powerful. His duel with Abraxas and Caius was testament to that, but his prowess during the battle was something else altogether, wasn't it?"

They all tentatively nodded their head in agreement while shooting furtive glances at Tom, who remained impassive while his grey eyes roamed over his house-mates.

Seeing as Tom hadn't stopped the discussion, Abraxas cleared his throat and eagerly gave his opinion.

"I didn't pay it any mind at the time, exhausted as I was, but did you see Peverell's Patronus? I've never heard of a wizard having a magical beast as a Patronus, and the sheer size of it…. Salazar, it was _magnificent_ ," Braxas exclaimed breathlessly. "The dementors didn't stand a chance against him."

"So it's true?" Caius Avery asked him, leaning forward in his seat enthusiastically, hungry for any scrap of information his friends were finally willing to share. Nott, Rosier, and Avery had been serving detention during the Hogsmeade visit, so they hadn't been part of the battle. All they knew was what they've heard whispered here and there.

"Peverell's Patronus is really a Dragon? I heard some fifth-year Griff asking Potter about it, though he didn't seem keen on answering any questions. He looked like he was about to hex the boy. Probably would've if Prewett hadn't dragged him away."

"It is," Braxas confirmed, unable to hide the awe in his voice. "I wasn't able to see what breed of Dragon it was, but it was definitely a dragon."

"Yeah, definitely a dragon. Couldn't really miss the huge flapping wings and massive tail on that beast if we tried," Augustus said sarcastically.

"That's rather impressive magic," mumbled Theodore Nott wide-eyed. "If there really are no records of a Patronus taking on the form of a magical beast, he'll go down in history for this," he stated in a matter-of-fact tone. "Not too shabby a feat to be known for."

"Yes, yes, the Patronus was impressive. We've covered that," Agustus said while waving his right hand dismissively. "But that was nothing compared to the shield he used," he commented excitedly, glad that he was finally able to speak his mind. "Held back a small army, he did. I've never seen anything like it. It's not in the Hogwarts curriculum that's for sure. I checked."

"It was some type of runic shield," Braxas informed them, garnering a surprised gasp from Avery, Rosier and Dolohov. "It's honestly no wonder he's still in the hospital wing."

"You can't be serious! I thought only runemasters were able to control those sort of shields?" squawked Avery, earning himself a smack in the back of his head from Theo.

"Keep in down, you oaf," Theo hissed, while everyone else, excluding Tom, glared at him.

"Alright. Alright. No need to get so aggressive," he mumbled, trying to ignore the aching in his head. "Still, a runic shield at his age? What is he? The next coming of Merlin?"

Tom's left eye twitched at the compliment. Not even he, as prodigious as he was, had ever been called 'the next coming of Merlin'.

"Don't exaggerate, Caius," muttered Theo nervously, having noticed Tom's rigid posture. "He's probably had a ton of guidance or something."

"Or something," Gustus agreed with an eye-roll. "Tom saw most of Peverell's prowess, I believe. Took down thirty wizards between them, didn't you, Tom?" he asked him, dragging him into the conversation. "You never said what happened once we left to fend off the dementors. Peverell disillusioned the street you were on. Can't for the life of me figure why he'd do such a thing, besides wanting to hide something, that is."

Tom felt like laughing. He wanted to tell them that they couldn't even begin to phantom what Hadrian Peverell was capable of, but the promise he'd made Hadrian was still fresh in his mind, as was the vow Lord Black had made his swear.

For some reason, Hadrian didn't want people to know just how powerful he was, so he would keep his secrets—for now.

"I don't know why he did that," Tom said. "While I have to admit that he used some rather impressive charms work and seemed to have some experience with duelling, he didn't do anything that would warrant any secrecy," he assured them, the lie slipping easily from his tongue.

Their faces all fell dejectedly at the lack of information he offered, and he was quite sure that Augustus and Abraxas didn't wholly believe him if their slightly narrowed eyes were anything to go by.

"But yes, with him by my side we quickly did away with the Dark Lord's followers," he told them. "There were thirty-two of them and only two of us, but I got the impression that they were rather weak," he added lightly, adding a small chuckle for good measure.

They all shared chuckles and smirks at that.

"Well, the Dark Lord mustn't have counted on a wizard such as yourself present at the battle, eh Tom," Ralphard Rosier complemented with a vicious, teeth-baring smirk.

Inwardly, Tom huffed at his feeble attempt at flattery, but outwardly he simply shrugged casually, modestly, as he always did.

"What I don't understand is why the Dark Lord decided to attack Britain at all, especially when he's still working on winning over France. It was rather sudden, no? Five attacks at the same time was also a bit overkill." Ralphard pointed out. "Grindelwald is usually more covert than that. It just doesn't add up."

"Could Peverell be the reason the Dark Lord attacked?" Theo asked them absentmindedly—as if he'd not just given voice to one of Tom's most persisting theories.

"What makes you say that?" Tom questioned him calmly while his heart started thundering away in his chest.

Of course, he'd wondered that same thing, but he had nothing to base that theory on beside the warning clench of his gut.

"The Dark Lord uses the Peverell crest as his signature, maybe there is a connection there," Theo reasoned.

"He does?" Caius questioned, taken-aback. Tom thought much the same but kept his mouth shut.

Theo's face twisted into a disgusted sneer, while everyone else rolled their eyes at their friend's dim-wittedness.

"What kind of pureblood are you?" Gustus asked him.

"Excuse me for not memorising all of those damned family crests," he mumbled, face flushed with embarrassment.

Theo sighed and ran a hand through his honey-blonde curls. "Yes, he uses the Peverell crest. Less so in recent years, but anyone who is well enough informed about the Dark Lord knows this. I don't think that's a coincidence."

"He did go out of his way to corner Peverell after the explosion in the Three Broomsticks," added Braxas thoughtfully. "I found it rather odd that the Dark Lord would stop to chat with a Hogwarts student. He didn't even attack him."

"It's possible that they are distantly related and he resents Hadrian for taking the Peverell Lordship," Gustus suggested. "It's not like we know anything about Peverell. For all we know, he could be the Dark Lord's illegitimate son."

"I don't think so, Gustus," Theo disagreed. "They don't look anything alike."

"Maybe he takes after his mother," Ralphard shrugged.

Caius frowned. "Well, even if he is his son, I think it's safe to bet that he isn't on the Dark Lord's side."

"I don't think that Hadrian is on anyone's side but his own," Tom commented, the words leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

"I get the same impression," Gustus agreed. "Which means that he might become a problem for you in the future, Tom," he said rather thoughtlessly, making them all wince and earning himself another jab in the side from Dolohov, who had been unusually silent throughout the whole conversation.

Tom narrowed his eyes at Lestrange's audacity, but could not completely fault him for his reasoning. After all, he had the same worries.

"Don't you worry about that, Augustus. I already have a plan in mind for Hadrian. I assure you that he doesn't pose a threat to me or my aspirations. Or would you like to imply otherwise?" he questioned him coldly.

Gustus quickly shook his head and gave a small, inaudible gulp. "Of course not, Tom," he assured him and bowed his head respectfully, while the others shifted nervously in their seats.

"Does Weaver know when he's due to wake up, Tom?" Braxas interjected, hoping to stir the conversation onto safer ground.

Tom glanced away from Gustus and settled his cold gaze onto Abraxas, his expression suddenly very blank.

"No, she doesn't, but she told Orion-" Tom wrinkled his nose in distaste at his slip of the tongue, "she told Black that it should be any day now."

"That's good news," Braxas smiled, sounding relieved.

Tom hummed and gave him a short, curt nod, but didn't say any more.

A few minutes later they all dispersed to their respective dorms, thoughts filled with the mystery that was Hadrian James Peverell.

It was well past the time that Tom should have fallen asleep, but try as he might, the restful slumber he so longed for kept eluding him—not that it was an unusual occurrence of late.

Since Hadrian's arrival in the castle, his nights have often been filled with thoughts of Hadrian—the mysterious wizard he so craved to get his hands on.

Yes, he'd had many thoughts. Some of them were curiously innocent, while others were filthy and indecent. Mostly though...mostly he had questions—an ever-growing pile of unanswered questions that left him ever so confused about Hadrian, himself, magic, the world— _everything_.

Who was Hadrian James Peverell really?

How was he so gifted? No, really, _how was he so gifted?_

How was it that he was so apt with wandless magic?

 _Who taught him?_

How powerful was Hadrian? _What other talents has he been keeping secret?_

Who was the person that had broken Hadrian's heart? Who? How? Why? When? _How dare they touch what was his?_

How was he going to go about seducing him?

Where has he been going during the night? Somewhere? _To someone?_

What was his story with the dementors? Was he loved and cared for growing up? Who raised him?

Why was the Dark Lord interested in Hadrian?

Why Rune Branding?

How was he connected to the Blacks? Did he care for Alphard in the same way the boy seemed to care for Hadrian? _Have they ever…?_

Why did he care so much about what Hadrian thought of him? Why did he _care_ for Hadrian? _Period._

Why did the wizard elicit such new and unwanted emotions from him—lust, envy, jealousy, need, warmth, nervousness, concern, _hope_. The last of which was most concerning. Hope? Hope for what exactly?

Why couldn't he stop thinking about him?

How were Hadrian's eyes such a brilliant shade of emerald green?

Did Hadrian think about undressing him as often as he thought of doing so to the older wizard? _Did he spare him any thoughts at all?_

Why was he so worried about Hadrian's health? Why did he feel his heart clenching something awful at the thought of never getting to speak with Hadrian again?

On and on and round and round those questions spun in an unending loop of torment.

While all those questions still spun in his mind that night as well, there was a newer, more pressing question that has stolen most of his focus, namely— _how in Morgan's name did Hadrian counter the Killing Curse?_

He'd never met an enigma like Hadrian James Peverell. And it was slowly but surely driving him a little mad.

He needed to get answers.

He needed to get closer to him.

He needed Hadrian to be his and his alone.

Mostly—and this was truly the most baffling to him. Uhm, well...mostly he needed Hadrian to _live_.

* * *

 **November 30th, 1941**

 **Hogwarts Hospital Wing**

It was dark, slightly chilly, and he wasn't in his own bed.

Those were the first things Harry noticed when he started regaining consciousness.

The next moment he noticed that his head was pounding, his stomach was churching so badly that he thought he was going to be violently ill, and he was sore all over. Oh, and he also realised that he had no idea where he was or how he got there.

Harry hadn't felt this disoriented since that one month he'd spent completely sloshed in Majorca. It was before the last war broke out and sucked out all the fun from the world.

On that note, Harry reached out both his hands to check for a bedmate, and sighed in relief—and maybe a tiny bit of disappointment—when he only felt the cold and somewhat uncomfortable mattress beneath his tentative touch.

"That had been a rather eventful month for you, Harry. Many new notches on your bedpost," came the unexpected commentary from his left, startling Harry.

One would think that after all this time he'd have gotten used to the bastard popping in unexpectedly.

"Why do you never wear that bell I bought you?" Harry grumbled, remembering the gift he'd given him on their four-hundredth anniversary.

"You mean the one you had charmed to a noose?" Death asked him sweetly. "Doesn't really match with any of my robes," he shrugged.

Harry snorted and shook his head. "Anyway, what the buggering fuck are you doing in my head?" he groaned, throwing his right arm over his face to cover his closed eyes.

"I'm not in your head, moron. Your mental shields are really shot right now, and your thoughts are irksomely loud," Death complained.

"Why would my shields be sho-" Harry began to ask, but then everything came back to him—Hogsmeade, the battle, dementors, bombs, Grindelwald, Family Magic, and Alphard.

Well fuck.

Alphard had seen—he'd seen _everything_.

Triple fuck with a side of Merlin's hairy balls slapping against Morgana's arse!

"Colourful, Harry," Death complimented dryly, "very colourful, Merlin would be proud. But yes, he saw, and he's not spoken a word in three days. The boy is in a bit—"

"Three days? I've been out for three whole days?" Harry asked him, surprised and very confused. It usually didn't take that long for him to heal. Few hours tops.

Death narrowed his eyes behind his hood at the interruption but decided to ignore Harry's momentary lapse in manners on account of his poor health. "It's Tuesday today, so yes, three days. What did you expect? You activated the travel rune way too many times, not to mention doing so after using the shield rune. Besides that, your body was damaged, and you took a huge blow to your head. And don't forget that you were healed by wizards, it's not as if they're known for their finesse when it comes to the art of healing magic or any other area of magic, for that matter. I'm actually surprised you're already awake, Harry. Arcturus did a fine job patching you up."

"So, I guess I'm lucky to be alive then, huh?" Harry smirked, removing his arm from his face and finally opening his eyes.

Death sighed audibly and shook his head disappointedly. "You're really not the comedian you think you are, Harry," he told him earnestly.

"Ever think that you're the one without a sense of humour?" Harry snapped back before jutting out his lower lip into a hurt pout.

"Not once," came Death's curt answer. "Now, as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, Alphard's in a bit of shock at the moment, but he's braving through the revelation," Death informed him casually.

Harry nodded his head and ran a hand through his messy hair. "Any idea how he's taking it?" he asked him warily.

"Well enough, I suppose, given the circumstances, but he's got quite a few questions for you," he said, not even trying to hide his amusement. "So does Arcturus for that matter. I'm curious to see how you're going to explain _that_ to Lord Black."

"Are you now?" Harry growled, before sighing and burrowing himself deeper into the hospital bed. All things considered, things could have turned out much worse. Family Magic was quick thinking on Death's part, and he couldn't begrudge him for that. Harry knew that he could trust Alphard to keep his secret, and if things got out of hand, he only needed to obliviate one mind.

"Everyone else got out fine though, right?" Harry asked him, still trying to piece together everything that's happened.

"No casualties, Major Evans," Death said, giving him a mocking two-finger salute.

Harry groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. "Let it go, Death. I'm allowed to have an existential crisis, and besides, it was only five years out of my very long life. Barely enough to make an impact," he tried to justify.

"You decided to go muggle and join the British army, Harry. That's hardly something I'm ever going to let you forget."

"David had been a great incentive," Harry reminded him as if it would explain everything.

"Yes, the strapping young muggle you were enamoured with before you fell in love with Riddle and he ruined you for all other men and women. Wasn't _David's_ death the reason you decided to go back—no wait, back then we went forward in time to destroy Riddle. Anyway, his death had been your incentive to go destroy Voldemort before his uprising. Something about war and your loved ones always being taken from you. In retrospect, David mustn't have been all that great since you mourned him for less than a year before jumping into bed with Riddle," Death pointed out none so delicately.

"Merlin, you're such a prick," Harry breathed, suddenly wishing he was still unconscious. "Do you have anything important to add or was that all?"

"Grindelwald was impressed by you," Death told him, dropping his jeering to a more serious tone. "But he's going to bide his time and watch you for now. He found you remarkable and covets to have you in his court—and in his bed—but he doesn't suspect anything. He took a good look at the wand you were using and deemed it not to be the Elder Wand, therefore you are not the Master of Death."

Harry snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I know, a rather ridiculous conclusion to draw for someone as intelligent as him, but I suppose he's projecting. He couldn't ever imagine using any other wand should he ever acquire the Elder Wand for himself. I'll let you know as soon as there are any further developments."

"Thanks," Harry nodded, "and Albus?" he ventured, closing one eye as if waiting for a blow.

"Suspicious as ever, even more so since he saw the runes burned on your side, and he's not too pleased with your association with the Black family. But you protected his students, and your ambitions, if to be believed, speak for themselves, so he's giving you the benefit of the doubt you asked for. Though I am quite sure that he'll have a few questions of his own to ask you."

"Remind me, why am I doing this again?" he groaned before quickly adding, "Wait, he didn't see the mark, did he?"

"No, I glamoured it for you before the clothes started coming off," Death smirked, knowing what his friend's reaction would be.

Harry glared at him and clenched his hands, trying to calm his twitching irritation.

"You couldn't have done that for the runes as well?" Harry asked him evenly, biting his lower lip to prevent the rush of profanity that wanted to stream from his mouth.

"What's the fun in that?"

"The sentiment still holds, Death. You're such a fucking prick. Now leave so I can rebuild my shields in peace," he ordered gruffly, noticing for the first time Alphard's sleeping form on the other bed.

"So you don't want to hear about Lucretia's re-evaluation of a courtship between the two of you? I saw it in her mind a few days ago. She was thinking about approaching Lord Black on the matter. But I see that I'm not wanted here," Death smiled darkly.

"No, wait! What are you talking about? Come back here!" Harry whisper-screamed at the empty spot Death had been standing in not moments ago. "Sometimes I really hate you," he moaned, gently rubbing away the headache he could feel coming on.

"Jacky, I honestly feel fine. Better than fine actually! I feel better than I have in years. So please, let me out of this hospital bed before I go mad," Harry begged the matron unattractively.

It's been about four hours or so since he woke up and started working on rebuilding his Occlumency shields. About halfway through sorting through his memories, a particular one caught his attention, mostly because he couldn't recall ever seeing it before, and that just didn't happen. He spent way too much time in his mind not to know every inch of what's inside it.

As he drew closer to the memory, he'd felt an unquenchable dread build inside him, as if warning him that viewing it would change everything.

Having enough on his plate to deal with presently, he'd almost ignored it and left it untouched, but his damned curiosity wouldn't allow him to. So he did what he always did, and dove in head-first.

What he saw when he allowed the memory to open and wash over him wasn't anything he ever expected it to be. It had been a key, a key that had unlocked a series of blocked memories. But those memories were so far out in the realm of the Impossible and Absurd Notions that they couldn't have possibly…. They had to have been dreams. They just had to be. There was no possible way that those events had actually—

He wouldn't, he just wouldn't and… _no_.

But an annoying voice that sounded very much like Orion pointed out that Harry would have easily noticed if those memories had, in fact, been dreams. But there had been nothing dreamlike about those memories.

It was all real.

But his face—and they…. Again, no. Not possible. There has to be an explanation, a reasonable explanation that will clear up all the confusion, betrayal, awe, and arousal he was feeling. There must be an explanation because if there wasn't that would mean that….

These thoughts he was having needed to stay private at all costs, so Harry had spent the rest of the time fortifying his shields.

He'd been about to get out of bed and go somewhere, anywhere else, to clear his thoughts and take a moment to figure out just what the bloody fuck was going on, when the matron walked in with a few potion vials in hand.

She gasped at the sight of him and immediately started scolding him for trying to get out of bed.

He'd been trying to wheedle his way out of the Hospital Wing ever since.

"Mr. Peverell," she intoned sternly. "I've repeatedly told you not to call me that," she reprimanded before continuing her lecture. "You're lucky to be alive. You should be resting, and grateful to be breathing! I will not have you leave that bed until Lord Black has come to check on you. Since he was your attending healer, I'm going to need his approval before releasing you, and I won't hear another word on the matter," she stated with finality.

"I'm not going to be able to convince you otherwise, am I?" Harry sighed, slumping back into his bed. A fierce scowl was her only reply. "But you'll call Arcturus right away, yes?" he couldn't help but ask.

The matron huffed but gave him a small smile. "Yes, Mr. Peverell. I'll call for Lord Black as soon as I deem it to be a proper hour," she said before turning around and leaving him alone with a sleeping Alphard.

Trying to take his mind off those unexplainable set of memory, Harry allowed his mind to recall how Alphard found him in his cupboard under the stairs at Number four Privet Drive. Well, not found _him_ exactly, but rather his subconscious, which had taken the form of an abused and lonely six-year-old Harry Potter.

Alphard had looked so shaken and confused when he had opened the small, bolted-down door. Merlin, Harry can't even begin to imagine what Alphard must have thought when he saw him, or what he thought about what he'd seen before he'd found him.

He had too many centuries of memories, some of which were locked away for a very good reason. Yet Alphard had still comforted the shaken and terrified boy he found. He'd kissed away Harry's tears, and held him tightly to his chest, whispering reassuring and loving words to him.

While Harry knew that he would not have died if the Blacks hadn't intervened, it was still so touching to know that they cared for him. Arcturus and the rest of the family had risked the wrath of the Black Family Magic for him, and one didn't just go and dismiss something like that as if it had been some trivial favour they had done him.

They loved him, and it genuinely warmed Harry's jaded heart to know that.

His happy thoughts had to make an abrupt stop when he heard the scratchy voice of his friend coming from the bed a few feet away from him.

"It's been three days and three nights since the ritual, and I still can't wrap my head around it," Alphard whispered brokenly and confused.

Harry's eyes quickly shot to the boy, and he had to hold back a gasp at the lost look he saw in Alphard's beautiful grey eyes.

To say that Alphard looked exhausted would be a thorough understatement. With his dishevelled hair, the dark bags under his eyes, which provided a disturbing contract to his ashen face, together with the hauntingly empty look in his eyes, Alphard looked very much drained.

"Alphard," he whispered, not knowing where to start.

"I heard you, you know," Alphard chuckled humorlessly. "Earlier this morning, before dawn, you were speaking to someone. Salazar, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I'd have thought you're going mental. But you were talking to _him_ , weren't you?"

It wasn't hard to figure out who Alphard was talking about.

Of course, Death decided to join in and appeared in front of them. Harry could practically feel his buzzing excitement.

"Oh, Harry. It's been centuries since you told anyone about me," Death sang, thrilled with the turn of events.

Gulping, Harry did his best to push away the sudden rush of anger he felt flaring up at the sight of his _friend_ and tried not to glance his way.

 _Those_ issues had to wait for now.

Harry kept his eyes firmly set on Alphard and tried to search for the right words to soothe his friend. "I'm still the same Harry you met a few months ago at Arcturus' manor," he started to say but stopped at Alphard's scoff.

"Do you even hear yourself talking? The same Harry? The same Harry!" he hissed. "You're a damn god, Harry!" he exclaimed hoarsely, and agitatedly sat up in his bed.

"Now wait a moment," Harry interjected. "I'm no god," he snorted. "I'm only immortal," he said, realising too late how that might sound to those that didn't understand the world as Harry did.

"Only immortal," Alphard whispered, then again, "only immortal," he parroted emotionlessly before bursting out into a bout of unbalanced chuckling.

"I think you broke him, Harry," Death smirked, leaning casually against the wall, but Harry continued to ignore him and kept his focus on Alphard, who now had tears running down his face, and Harry didn't think that they were of the mirthful sort of tears.

He wanted to go over there and take his friend into his arms, but he wasn't sure that any physical contact between them would be appreciated right then. It was best to keep his distance and wait for Alphard to come to him.

"I know that it's a lot to take in, and I know that it's hard to believe. I swear that I'll answer any questions you have for me, alright? But I need you to calm down, Alphard. I'm not going to hurt you, I swear I would never-"

"I'm not afraid of you, Harry," he interrupted him between deep gasps of breath.

Harry looked startled at that and furrowed his brows in confusion. "You're not?" he asked him, sounding inappropriately insulted. At Alphard's blank stare he ran a hand through his hair and cleared his throat before amending, "What I meant was, good, you shouldn't be. I mean it's not like I could wipe you out with a single thought or anything," he murmured, unable to help himself.

Alphard rolled his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, not believing that this man-child was actually the Master of Death. "I'm not afraid or confused—alright, maybe I'm very confused—but mostly I'm _heartbroken_ you senile old man!" he spat.

"Well, I didn't see that one coming," murmured Death gleefully as he watched Harry's eyes widen. "Though, it is rather reminiscent of what his nephew had said to you when he found out."

"Huh?" Harry asked Alphard, ever so eloquently, completely ignoring the side commentary.

"You said it yourself, you're immortal, Harry. We can't very well be together knowing that I'll grow old and wrinkled while you stay young and beautiful," he told him in a tone that suggested he really should have cottoned on by now.

Harry blinked a few times at his friend, not really knowing if he was being serious or pulling his leg.

"Out of everything, _that's_ what you decide to focus on?" Harry asked him, not bothering to hide his bewilderment. Honestly. _Blacks_.

Alphard huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "What is it that you would rather have me focus on? The fact that your best mate is Death, and that you're in love with Riddle? Or maybe you'd like to discuss your ability to travel through time, and that it's quite possible that in a few hundred years the Muggles are going to end the world. Then there is that small tidbit where you were once in a relationship with both Mordred and Merlin! Merlin! Or even better, maybe you'd like me to focus on the interesting fact that the reason we were able to perform Family Magic on you was because you were once bonded to my would-be nephew!"

At the reminder of his and Sirius' bonding, Harry had to look away from Alphard.

When Tom had left Harry to become Voldemort, he'd done his best to stay far away from the war and the whole world in general, but when the time came for his godfather and birth family to be born, he couldn't help but check up on them and make sure that they were safe.

He'd been able to keep his distance for the most part, but in the end, he hadn't been able to stop himself from getting to know the people he still loved so dearly. So, he'd selfishly transferred to Hogwarts in their sixth-year, granting himself something he'd always wished for—getting to know his parents and godfather.

Their presence had been a soothing balm for his broken heart and spirit, and most unexpectedly, Sirius had helped him the most. Harry might not have loved Sirius the same way that Sirius had loved him, but he'd loved him enough to accept when Sirius had asked for them to be bonded. He'd even offered him immortality, but that hadn't been something he wanted.

At that point, Sirius had come to know everything about him, including the facts that; he was Master of Death and a few centuries old, that Sirius had been his godfather in another lifetime, and that he had been in love with the then reigning Dark Lord. Yet knowing all that, Sirius had still wanted him, had accepted that Harry would never be able to give him his whole heart in return, and had chosen him despite everything.

They had bonded, and they had been happy for a while, but Harry had been unable to convince Sirius to stay out of Voldemort's war. Sirius had understood Harry's reasons for staying out of the war and Tom's way—for the most part—but he'd chosen to fight because that's just who Sirius was, and bliss once again turned into a nightmare.

Not even three whole years into their marriage, Sirius died in a raid by Bellatrix Lestrange's wand. It's funny how those things work out, once again he was slain at the hands of his cousin. A few days later, James Potter and a pregnant Lily Potter were also dead. Once again casualties in Voldemort's war.

Their death left Neville as the prophesied child, though his circumstances had been slightly different from Harry's. For one thing, Neville had been spoiled growing up, Voldemort had come back during his second year, and the war took much longer to end. Not to mention that while Neville had actually defeated Voldemort in the end, he'd also lost his own life in the process.

But that's beside the point.

The death of his husband and parents had once again driven Harry into solitude, so distraught and angry that he left the world with its fate in its own hands, which, of course, had turned out to be a grave mistake.

"Technically, you were able to perform Family Magic because when I was fifteen, Sirius died and left me everything, and I guess because I spent quite a few centuries being Lord Black. Black magic is now as much a part of me as Potter or Peverell magic," Harry explained absentmindedly, still looking away from him, lost in a whirlwind of memories.

Alphard sighed and leaned back into his bed. "I think we can both agree that there are a lot of things that you're going to need to explain to me, but I don't think that an hour of chatting is going to cut it. I'm still weak from the ritual, and all this thinking the past few days has left me exhausted."

"How rational and mature of him," Death commented. "This turned out much better than expected."

Harry had almost forgotten about Death, but now that he made himself known again Harry felt that blinding rage return.

"Then rest, Al. We have all the time in the world to talk later," Harry reassured Alphard and continued ignoring Death, who by now had picked up on Harry's silent animosity.

" _You_ have all the time in the world, Harry. _I'm_ still mortal," Alphard joked, giving him a weak chuckle.

Harry beamed at Alphard, knowing then without any doubt that they would be okay. It might take some time, but they would be fine.

"I'll try to make sure you live a long life," Harry reassured him with a wink, eliciting a devious smirk from Alphard.

"I must admit, being your friend sounds much more appealing now," Alphard told him loftily.

"Go to sleep, you blockhead," Harry ordered with a roll of his eyes.

"Already halfway to dreamland," he murmured through a yawn, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Thanks, Alphard," Harry whispered.

"What for, Harry?" he asked as he tried to get more comfortable.

"Caring," he told him simply with a small but sincere smile.

"Cours I care, idiot," Alphard murmured before drifting off to sleep.

When Harry was sure that Alphard was asleep, he finally turned his attention to Death, who had been staring a hole into his forehead for the past ten minutes.

Having enough of Harry's silent treatment, Death snapped, "Would you like to explain what got your knickers in a twist? I spoke to you not five hours ago, and we were fine. I highly doubt that my comment about Lucretia's interest in you managed to get you this riled up, so, spit it out," he growled impatiently.

He'd tried to get a glimpse of Harry's thoughts, but his mind was as fortified as it's ever been, which only managed to worry and agitate him further.

"You need to stay the fuck away from me for now," Harry bit out as he tried to keep his temper in check. "You and I have some serious beef to work through, but right now I'm fucking off, and you better not fucking follow me, you absolute piece of shit," he snarled before disappearing and leaving a bewildered Death behind.

* * *

I'd like to thank deathtongue and spedicorn from over at AO3 for taking on the job as my new betas! Thanks for rooting out my mistakes and making the story flow better!

Thanks to everyone for reading. Hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

 **November 29th, 1941**

 **Northwest Scotland**

Everything appeared mostly the same. No different than what it had looked like when he'd come here in 1945, not unless you counted the difference in the season. Right then it was winter and most of the trees had already shed some of their coat, leaving behind a soft bed of dried leaves to fertilise the earth. It was a stark contrast compared to the wild colours of spring and summer, but nevertheless it was beautiful, especially the sparse sun rays glistening off the frosted surfaces. It added a layer of quiet wonder to the place that he'd always preferred.

But yes, other than the change in the season everything else was just as he remembered.

The narrow stream that flowed to the south was where it was meant to be, housing hundreds of water creatures along its stretch. Several willow trees had their roots planted alongside the glittering silver stream as if purposefully grown there to protect the river from its wild surroundings.

Willow trees weren't the only trees in sight. Alder, Ash, birch, hazel—trees upon trees wherever his gaze fell, all with large, sturdy trunks towering several feet above his head. Even the air smelt the same, fresh and earthy.

And the cottage was where it was meant to be, looking far too maintained for the hundreds of years that it had been abandoned. Magically enchanted rose vines were trailing up its left side, covering it in a bright weave of white, purple, blue, and red.

If Harry squinted his eyes, he could also make out the blueberry and strawberry bushes that served as a back fence for the small home.

It was unplottable Peverell land that he was standing on, a spot in the infested world that he lived in that was completely secluded with nothing but several hundred acres of pure nature separating him from civilisation.

The first time he'd come to this place was when his darling godson, Teddy, had passed away.

Right after Teddy's funeral, Harry had gone back in time to the beginning of the Common Era. He couldn't really recall why he'd chosen that particular time, but once he'd arrived at his destination he'd craved solitude more than anything else.

Death had told him of this piece of land that was magically bound to him, and so he'd made his way through the forest until he found the perfect clearing to build his cottage in.

He'd spent weeks building the cottage with his own bare hands and no magic. Well, almost no magic. The trees he'd felled were large, and he was but one man.

It had been the right kind of therapy he'd needed after Teddy's passing and had helped him get through the worst of his grieving.

Once the cottage had been built, he'd picked the perfect spot in his back garden and conjured a beautiful, white marble monument, onto which he'd inscribed the names of everyone he'd loved and lost so that he would forever remember them and honour their place in his heart.

The cottage had become a place to remember his humble and simple beginnings—his first life—the life he'd had before he finally transitioned into his immortal existence.

He'd spent about thirty years in this cottage, learning everything there was to know about the mind arts and potions. Thirty years of almost absolute solitude, before he'd then set out on his quest to learn everything else there was to learn about the world he lived in and was chosen to protect.

Over the decades, Harry had stopped by the cottage to check on it, and to pay his respects to the people whose name could be found etched into the marble monument. He'd also come here when he felt the need for comfort, and whenever he needed to remind himself who he was.

But he'd always kept his visits short, a week or two at the most. Never wanting to dwell in the past for too long, lest he be sucked back into the black pit of grief.

That, however, had changed that one summer when he'd found himself heartbroken and well beyond devastated. Lovesick fool that he'd been.

 _The summer of 1945_.

After his 'falling out' with Tom, he'd needed the reprieve and solitude this place had offered, the comfort of knowing that time did indeed heal all wounds even if they left scars. So he'd spent the whole summer here, wallowing in self-pity and lost in his mindscape, re-living all his precious moments with Tom.

Or so he thought.

No, so he _remembered_.

To think that so much could have been different.

To think that he could have avoided so much heartache.

This place had helped him through some of the most agonising periods of his life and had always represented a symbol of hope—the end of something and the beginning of another.

But that had changed now because all it did was remind him of Death's multiple betrayals.

It was hard to process.

He still wasn't completely convinced that it hadn't all been a dream. It just didn't seem like a viable possibility. But short, silky blond curls, crystalline blue eyes, and tangled limbs kept flashing relentlessly in front of his eyes, tormenting him with their vividness.

But those weren't the only memories that taunted him.

There was another memory—one that was perhaps even harder to swallow.

 _It was the day before the end of the school year._

 _For most, it was a day of relief and anticipation. Summer was upon them, and studying and homework could finally take a backseat to late mornings lazing about in bed and long days of nothing but leisure._

 _For the seventh-years, it was slightly different. While they too were looking forward to a few weeks of relaxation after their N.E.W.T.s, this would be their last day as students—their last day to enjoy all that Hogwarts had to offer since most of them would never return._

 _They would miss it—the castle, their friends, even the professors._

 _But that wasn't what had Harry in a state of deep melancholy._

 _Because this was the day Harry had chosen to remove himself from everyone's memories—to make it so that he'd never even been here at all._

 _And that's why Harry was looking for Tom. He and Tom had been too involved for his spell to work effectively on him, so he had to personally Obliviate Tom and alter his memories in such a way that Harry Stevenson would mean absolutely nothing to him._

 _Harry had searched the whole castle before he'd wandered to the Astronomy Tower. He hadn't thought it possible for Tom to be at what he'd secretly dubbed as their spot. Not after the way their last conversation had gone. But lo and behold, there Tom was, sitting in his usual spot, taunting Harry with what he had lost._

 _Was this some new form of torture that Tom had become partial to?_

 _Had he not hurt Harry enough?_

 _Did he want to personally make sure that Harry was broken to his satisfaction?_

 _Harry knew that Tom had been aware of him since he'd stepped foot onto the roof, but Tom had yet to acknowledge him._

 _Moments went by, neither saying a word. Instead, they embraced the first time in weeks they'd allowed themselves to be in one another's vicinity._

 _Just as Harry was about to step forward, a whisper reached his ears, a whisper so venomous that it stopped him dead in his tracks._

" _Love seeketh not itself to please," Tom recited with his back still toward Harry. "Nor for itself hath any care; But for another gives its ease, And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."_

 _Harry had never thought that such sweet words could be spoken so mockingly and with such scorn, but after a moment's thought he understood and picked up where Tom had left off, his tone gentle despite himself._

" _So sung a little Clod of Clay, Trodden with the cattle's feet, But a Pebble of the brook Warbled out these metres meet: 'Love seeketh only Self to please, To bind another to its delight, Joys in another's loss of ease, And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.'"_

 _Harry chuckled then. It was a short, cold sound that was devoid of any of his previous gentleness_

" _It's really touching," Harry ground out, "what you thought of our entire relationship. I'm thoroughly enlightened now."_

 _Tom's whole body tensed for a moment before relaxing again._

" _I always agreed with the pebble," Tom mumbled, sounding wary._

 _Harry snorted. "Yes. You've made that abundantly clear," Harry couldn't help but bite out._

" _Pleasure of love lasts but a moment, Pain of love lasts a lifetime," Tom quoted factually, completely ignoring Harry's snide comment._

 _And what was this exactly?_

" _Are you going to recite every love and philosophy quote you've ever read about? What is this, Tom?" Harry demanded, not in the mood for games._

" _What do you think, Harry?" Tom asked him sarcastically. "Do you believe there is any merit to what Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian had to say? Do you believe that I've sentenced myself to a lifetime of this- this wretched pain?"_

 _Harry's breath caught in his throat, surprised by the boy's words._

 _Suddenly, Tom started fidgeting agitatedly with his fingers._

" _I was so sure that I'd made the right choice, so sure that I didn't need you," Tom went on accusingly as if it was all Harry's fault._

 _Then, almost unwillingly, Tom's voice softened, tinged with a deep and genuine sadness that tugged at Harry's heart. "Have I been a fool? Will it ever go away?" he asked him, still turned away from him, as if afraid that looking at Harry would make him...attack? Kiss him? Apologise?_

 _Tom didn't wait for a reply._

" _Every day, for a brief moment after I wake up, I forget. I forget that you're not mine anymore, and I reach out for you. When my fingers find nothing but cold sheets it dawns on me, the cruel reality that you're gone—that you'll never share my bed again, that you won't be sharing a life with me. It's an agonising feeling, this hollow sadness that consumes me every morning like clockwork. And I wonder if it'll ever go away—if I'll ever stop missing you."_

 _Why was he saying these things?_

" _Stop." Harry had meant for it to come out firm, but instead, it came out as a gasped plea._

 _Tom finally turned around and faced him, his handsome face set in an expression Harry had never seen him wear before. He looked tired, lost, and confused—desolate—and his eyes were alight with misery, accented heavily by the dark circles under his eyes._

 _His hair was in disarray, with his curls falling carelessly into his eyes, and his clothes were rumpled as if they've been slept in._

 _He looked like a train-wrack and Harry could help the deep, spiteful swell of satisfaction that welled up inside him at the sight. It was petty, but it was so gratifying to see that this hadn't been as easy for Tom as he'd made it seem to be._

" _Why? Why should I stop? Is this not what you wanted to hear? Did you not want to see me destroyed?" Tom asked him erratically, waving at himself as if to make a point._

 _Harry almost choked on his shock._

" _Destroyed? You? I'm not the one that broke things off, Riddle," Harry reminded him. "Oh, that's right. You didn't really break things off between us, did you? You're too much of a coward to own up to your choices like a man, so you let the rumour mill do the job for you."_

 _Tom looked as if Harry had punched him in the._

" _I couldn't face you," he said, "that's why I did it."_

 _Harry didn't follow and Tom must have seen his confusion because he added somewhat uneasily, ashamedly even, "You know, with uhm- Violet—"_

"— _Victoria," Harry corrected automatically, his green eyes narrowing angrily at the reminder of that pureblood harlot._

 _Tom cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable and slightly green._

" _Yes, her. I knew that if I spoke to you—if I even so much as looked into your eyes, I wouldn't have been able to go through with it. So I propositioned her and led her to that cupboard knowing that we'd be caught."_

 _Harry still didn't hear an apology. He heard excuses of what Tom probably thought were of the romantic variety, but still no apologies._

" _And is that meant to mean something to me, Riddle?" he asked him stonily._

 _Because it didn't change anything. Tom's small confession meant little compared to the betrayal and the choices he'd made._

 _Tom looked frustrated and rubbed his hand over his face, then proceeded to tangle his fingers into his hair and gave his clutched locks a rough tug. As if realising what he was doing, he swiftly dropped his hand. Tom blinked a few times and shook his head as if to gather his bearings, his face contorted in confusion and indecision._

 _It was a shocking display of agitation and complete loss of control, and it was honestly slightly discomfiting to witness._

" _We're leaving tomorrow," Tom stated with such heaviness that it threw Harry off balance._

" _Astute observation," Harry managed to say, trying and failing to sound unaffected._

 _Tom's lips twitched for a moment before he bit his bottom lip and frowned. "Once we leave these walls I'll have no idea where you are, and I probably won't even be able to contact you even if I did somehow build enough courage to try and write to you."_

 _Facts. Tom was stating facts._

" _I won't be the person you tell about your new spells. I won't be the one to make you tea in the morning. I won't be the one to keep away your nightmares. You'll move on. At some point, you'll move on to- to someone else," he said, sounding as if he abhorred even the thought of that outcome._

 _More Facts. Although Harry didn't know that he'd be moving on anytime soon._

" _You'll share your inventions and spells with them. You'll ask them for their opinions and advice. You'll travel the world and find new magics with them, and…" Tom trailed off as if unable to bring himself to finish his thought._

 _Tom clenched his jaw and turned away from Harry, his gaze locked onto the dark horizon in front of them_

 _For an agonising moment, Harry thought that Tom would stop talking, that he would go back to ignoring him._

 _Maybe it would have been better if he had._

" _I never said it. Never really saw the need for it until you stopped saying it to me every day," Tom murmured, his tone apologetic._

 _What was he talking about?_

 _Then, in one graceful movement, Tom got up and turned to look Harry directly in the eye, his intense grey eyes shining with determination._

" _I'm yours, Harry. As awfully cliche as it sounds, it took me losing you to realise that."_

 _No._

 _He wasn't allowed to do this. Not now. Not when the memory charm was waiting at the tip of Harry's tongue._

" _Don't," Harry growled harshly, but his heart was beating wildly in his chest, entertaining the thought…. "You don't have the right to—"_

" _It's the truth," Tom interjected softly. "You might not feel the same way anymore. You might not want to hear it. But it's the truth, Harry. I'm yours, have been yours since the moment we've exchanged glares. And I believe that I shall be yours forevermore."_

 _He couldn't mean it, Harry desperately reminded himself, despite hope taking root. Tom was just trying to manipulate him._

" _If you'll have me- if all it takes is for me to- to abandon my plan to make more Horcruxes than I'll do it. If it means that you'll be mine, that it will secure your affections for me—if it means that you'll be my family—then I'll do it."_

 _He didn't just say that to him. He couldn't possibly mean it._

 _But the honesty he saw in Tom's eyes couldn't be faked._

" _He's lying, Harry," came Death's voice whispered urgently into his ears._

 _He'd been so lost in Tom that he hadn't even noticed Death arrive._

" _Don't let him do this to you," Death begged him as he felt Harry slipping further under Tom's thrall._

 _But Harry didn't want to listen to Death._

" _Do you mean it? Will you stop?" Harry asked Tom, his eyes never leaving him._

 _There was no hesitation in Tom's reply._

" _Yes. Salazar, Yes," Tom whispered, hastily scrambling forward to get closer to him._

" _Merlin. Harry, don't you fucking dare fall for this bullshit trap," Death warned him._

 _Harry brushed him off and stepped towards Tom, millions of butterflies fluttering in his stomach._

" _Then vow to me, Tom. Take a vow that you'll never make another Horcrux."_

 _Would he do it? Was he really choosing Harry?_

 _But before he could hear Tom's reply, he heard Death whisper in his mind, "I'm sorry, Harry," he said, sounding genuinely upset and remorseful. "But I can't let you do this."_

And that had been the end of the memory.

Harry would never know what could have been. Death took that away from him.

He had no idea how long he'd been standing in front of the flowing stream in the freezing cold weather, wearing nothing but a thin white t-shirt and black slacks to shelter him from the harsh winter. But the sun had slowly begun to set, disappearing into a sea of orange and green leaves.

In any other circumstance, the view of orange and violet streaks painting the skyline would have been breathtaking, but now all it did was serve as a reminder of _those other_ memories. Those other wretched memories that had been treacherously locked away from him.

Harry had arrived at his Peverell Cottage before the break of dawn to try to figure things out, but here he was, hours later, still a mess of contradicting emotions battling furiously against one another—and as unresolved as he'd been when he arrived.

Harry thought that by then he'd have managed to reach an accord with himself, or, at the very least, have calmed the raging beast inside enough to trust himself to not end the world. But rather than subsiding, the beast kept growing in strength, threatening to rip through his heart and to take hold of him.

The urge to release his enraged energy and destroy it all ached in his bones. Sheer will was the only thing that kept him from lashing out and razing the cottage and all its surroundings to the ground.

 _Soft blond curls threaded between his fingers._

 _Loving azure eyes that burned him with a shameful amount of passion._

 _Skin the shade of snow, beautifully luminescent in the moonlight._

 _Lips so luscious that he couldn't help but ravage. Those same lips that wrapped around—_

No, he just couldn't go there—won't allow himself to— _not ever_.

How was he to move forward?

Was it even real? What if it was? Why block the memory? Why not remove it altogether if he'd gone through the trouble of making sure that...that… _mistake_ , stays in the past?

Harry just couldn't understand how Death could betray him like that.

Where was the honesty and respect for boundaries they'd sworn to? They had rules, and mutual respect towards one another that he'd thought was unfailing.

He was furious. No, what he felt went far beyond fury. There was not one word in existence that could adequately describe exactly how furious he felt.

He'd been audaciously betrayed, manipulated, handled, and deceived—by none other than his most trusted companion.

 _Infuriated, enraged, incensed, livid, wrathful—_ how else could he possibly feel with the knife lodged so deeply into his back?

Yet, however irrational it was, that unmeasurable fury wasn't the most consuming emotion that scorched through him and the other he could name very easily—rejection. It's what spurred the few tears that managed to make their escape.

This couldn't have been revealed to him at a more inconvenient time.

Why now? Why did these memories unlodge themselves now of all times?

He knew how it happened, of course. He had Black Family Magic to thank for that. But why did it have to be now while he was in the middle of trying to change the world?

He couldn't even decide if he'd rather not have known. He had the past couple of centuries as proof that it would have definitely been easier for him if he'd never found out about any of it, but was it better not knowing? To not know how Tom had felt about him? But if Death had never changed his memories, he wouldn't have gotten to know those beautiful eyes and that angelic smile, or the gentleness of his touch.

But what did that matter when he'd locked it all away from him anyway?

Merlin, help him. This was all so grossly fucked up.

Before he could lurch himself into any further spiralling thoughts, he felt an all too familiar presence appear behind him. It took everything in him not to turn around, but he stubbornly stood his ground facing away from him, clamped his eyes shut, and bit his tongue to keep his mouth from shooting off.

They stood in tense silence for a while until Death couldn't seem to take it any longer.

"Alright," Death sighed exasperatedly. "I've no idea what's wrong with you, Harry, but I gave you a day to get your shit together before coming here to get you. Everyone back at Hogwarts is going ape-shit over your disappearance. They were even thinking that you've been kidnapped by Grindelwald, so you might want to let everyone know that you've not been taken prisoner," he informed him, hoping to appeal to Harry's sense of compassion towards his worried friends. But Harry stayed silent.

Death waited for a few beats, hoping that Harry would snap out of whatever funk he found himself in, _pronto_. But no such luck.

"Would you like to discuss what's weighing you down, or would you rather continue sulking and throw everything we've planned away?" Death finally snapped at him.

Harry's shoulders shook as he began to chuckle darkly.

"I don't know, Death. Would you like to discuss the summer of 1945?" he asked him, still not turning around.

"Summer of 1945?" Death wondered out loud, clearly confused with the turn of conversation. "What are you on about, Harry? That's the summer after Riddle broke your itty-bitty heart. You stayed here in the cottage and-" he abruptly cut himself off, finally catching on. It was clear in the way his breath hitched, and in the way he stumbled back a few steps, that Death finally understood.

"Indeed," murmured Harry tiredly. "You didn't just take away my memories, did you? Now that I'm able to recall everything with perfect clarity it's easy to piece together. You took away my curiosity about you as well, didn't you? I mean, I spent centuries wondering…but then it was gone. I've not thought about it since, and if my thoughts do stray that way, they are quickly turned around, almost as if manipulated to do so, wouldn't you agree?" he asked him evenly, but he betrayed his agitation by uncrossing his arms from over his chest and running a hand through his hair.

"I always knew you'd look like an angel. That confidence and swagger had to stem from somewhere, right?" Harry chuckled again, this time it came out sounding broken and defeated.

"Harry-" Death started to say, but Harry wouldn't have any of it.

"Save it," he growled. "I'm not ready to hear your fucked up excuses. One day isn't nearly enough to process the shit you pulled—to process the number of memories you took away from me," Harry hissed, feeling his anger bubble to the surface. "Just stay the fuck away from me until I figure shit out."

Harry was about to leave, but he had one last message he needed to convey before doing so, and it couldn't be done facing away from Death. So Harry slowly turned around to face the dark hooded man that had caused his most recent pain and confusion.

Emerald green eyes stared directly into the dark void behind the hood, perfectly able to picture the crystalline eyes hiding in the shadows.

"Tamper with my memories again, and I'll burn this rotten world to the ground myself," Harry warned him before disappearing silently from sight.

* * *

Arcturus was not a happy wizard. He wasn't happy at all.

He had just spent the entire day searching the castle and its grounds for one infirmary escapee, Hadrian James Peverell.

He'd been worried sick about the idiot boy, who had up and left the Hospital Wing without leaving so much as a note for them to find. So, with no inkling whatsoever as to where the boy had disappeared, he'd searched, and searched—and hyperventilated in a private alcove—and searched some more, cursed the boy to the stars and back, searched some more….

Then, just as he was about to hysterically tear into the Hogwarts faculty for their utter incompetence—his own failings aside—Hadrian was seen leisurely walking out of the Forbidden Forest, shivering and looking like death warmed over, but otherwise unharmed.

At the news Arcturus was finally able to breathe again, for a moment or so, but then he became angry.

Now, ten minutes later, Hadrian stood before him looking slightly abashed, green eyes lowered guiltily to the ground.

Needing some more time to get his anger under control, Arcturus began performing some diagnostic spells. Merlin knows what the idiot boy could have gotten up to during all this time away from the castle.

Once Arcturus was reassured that Hadrian wasn't about to kneel over from magical exhaustion, he pushed Harry towards his hospital bed, shooting him a look through narrowed eyes that clearly said: 'I dare you to argue with me, Hadrian. _I dare you_ '.

Not wanting to further upset the wizard, Harry promptly flicked his wrist to change into the horrendous hospital gown and climbed into bed.

Arcturus groaned internally at the unconscious display of wandless magic and grit his teeth together. Merlin, have mercy on him, the idiot boy was going to be the death of him.

Harry wasn't meant to perform any magic until he was fully recovered, not with a wand and certainly not _without_ one.

"I'm sure that Madam Weaver has informed you that you're not to use any magic until I've cleared you to do so," Arcturus barked, startling Harry.

"Right," Harry said. "I mean, yes, she did. I just- er- forgot. I'm sorry, I will uh- I will try to refrain until you give me the go-ahead," he stuttered, nervously wringing the coarse bed sheet between his fingers.

Arcturus harrumphed in a rather un-Lord-like manner and looked like he was about to give Harry a piece of his mind, but then he sighed and his shoulders slumped wearily, only adding fuel to Harry's guilt.

"You've got some nerve, boy," Arcturus finally grumbled.

"I apologise for any worry I've caused you, Arcturus," Harry said regretfully, trying to make amends. "That truly hadn't been my intention. I simply needed some air and lost track of time in the forest," he explained, sounding sincere enough in his apology, but Arcturus wasn't born yesterday. Harry had _not_ been in the forest, of that he was sure, but he allowed the lie to slide for now because they had other, more pressing matters to address.

"Whether it was your intention or not, you still had us all worried sick, Harry. Alphard has barricaded himself in the dorm room. Orion had to be given a sleeping draught. All of Hogwarts' faculty spent their day searching for you, and Aurors had been called! If you don't have any care for your own health, the next time you deem it necessary to disregard all instructions given to you, try and consider the people who care and worry for you," he scolded harshly, and for the first time in their relatively short acquaintance, Harry could see that rumoured Black Madness glinting in his aged eyes.

"Yes, sir. It won't happen again," Harry quickly reassured him.

"Good," he said stiffly, not feeling at all reassured. "And now that you're awake and almost fully recovered, I'd like to tell you what a complete fool you were during the battle."

 _Huh?_

"Don't give me that look, Harry," he snapped agitatedly, causing Harry's eyebrows to rise even higher. "While what you did was very admirable and brave," he said, and while the words themself would be normally considered a compliment, it was clear that Lord Black didn't mean them as such, "you almost lost your life in the process."

"You do realise that, don't you?" Arcturus asked him, _stressing_ the question in such a way that had Harry thinking that Lord Black was actually concerned that Harry was a narcissist with an inflated sense of self-importance that rendered him incapable of grasping his own mortality.

Well, the joke's on him.

"What were you thinking? Activating two Rune Brandings, conjuring a Patronus, healing! Not to mention whatever else you had to do to capture those dark wizards! What exactly did you think was going to happen to you? And don't get me started on the fact that I've been told you showed the Dark Lord cheek! The Dark Lord!" he exclaimed somewhat hysterically. "Someone that's very dangerous and who had you surrounded, Hadrian. Do you have a death wish? If I _ever_ hear that you've so carelessly endangered your life again, you can rest assured that I will oblige your death wish!"

Struck speechless and feeling thoroughly admonished, Harry simply nodded his head.

Arcturus sighed and he gave Harry a small smile, his anger depleting rather abruptly. "That said, I must applaud your skills, Harry. It is thanks to you that none of the other students suffered any grievous injuries."

"Right. Uh- thanks, Arcturus," he mumbled, feeling bewildered by his sudden change in his temperament.

"I am proud of what you've done, Harry," he told him, his tone turning soft, "and so very grateful that you've kept my children safe. Thank you," he said, voice hoarse and eyes shimmering suspiciously with unshed tears.

Harry started feeling warm around the collar at the unexpected praise and gratitude. At a loss for words, Harry simply gave him a small, shy nod and one of his rarely-seen, genuine smiles.

Arcturus cleared his throat, "Alright then," he said, breaking the emotion-filled moment. "I think that you will be relieved to hear that I've asked everyone who saw your Rune Brandings for a vow of secrecy," he informed him delicately, clearly wanting to say more on the subject of his brandings.

"Much appreciated, Arcturus. Although I trust that such things would be kept quite regardless, I understand that we cannot afford even a whisper of such matters to get around right now. Not with the appeal less than two weeks away."

Lord Black waited for a moment, hoping that he'd say more, offering a short explanation as to _how_ , _why, when_ he'd brutalised himself. But the seconds ticked by and Harry kept silent, so as Harry didn't seem likely to elaborate on the brandings, he reluctantly moved onto other matters.

"Speaking of the appeal. While you were recovering, we finally received word from the D.O.M. and the Department of Magical Artifacts. The D.M.L.E. also sent us a letter, together with a personal letter from the Minister."

"They have?" Harry asked him, sitting up straighter in his bed, curious and nervous to hear what they said.

"The D.O.M has finally declared your invention safe and will be giving you their full support," Arcturus said with a customary Black smirk. "Not that we had any doubts about that, but it's good to have written confirmation."

Harry nodded his head in agreement and looked pleased with the outcome, maybe even slightly smug.

"After an extensive analysis, the Department of Magical Artifacts decided to classify your invention under 'Highly Classified Grey Artifacts'. Only authorised Ministry personnel and the creator are legally allowed to use it," he informed him.

"Well that's finally some good news," Harry stated with a smirk of his own in place. Everything was coming together just as he'd hoped. "And the D.M.L.E.?" he prompted.

At the question, Arcturus' eyes sparkled mischievously with a sharp edge of maliciousness.

"The D.M.L.E will be coordinating with you on the shelter once you're fully recovered," he proudly informed him.

Harry's eyebrows rose and his smirk grew even wider. "So the Minister has finally agreed to our proposition?"

Arcturus nodded his head. "Indeed, he has. Truth be told, he didn't have much of a choice. Over thirty families have already lost their homes, and their only option is to place them at the shelter. Is the manor prepared? I have the healers, mind healers, medi-wizards, and a potion master picked out," he listed a touch excitedly. "They simply await our owl."

"That's perfect, Arcturus. And yes, the shelter is prepared, and the best wards Gringotts has to offer are set in place."

Arcturus looked relieved at the news. "I'll need to provide the Head Auror with a complete list of those wards," he informed him.

"I have it filed away in my trunk. I'll have Orion send it to you since I'm not allowed out of the hospital wing," Harry griped good-naturedly.

"Don't start, young man," Arcturus warned him. "Be glad I didn't have you bound to the bed."

"Oh, Arcturus. That's rather forward of you," Harry told him coyly. "What would the dear Lady Black have to say if she heard you proposition me so?"

Arcturus sputtered for a moment and flushed scarlet at the innuendo.

"Merlin, Harry! Behave yourself," he chided, his tone just a pitch off.

"But you look so handsome when you're flustered," Harry flirted, batting his eyelashes in an exaggerated manner which caused Lord Black to choke on his chuckles.

"Don't think that I don't know what you're trying to do. You're not going to distract me from all the questions I've got for you, Harry," he told him mirthfully. "How is it, exactly, that we were able to perform Black Family Magic on you? And how, exactly, are you acquainted with Gellert Grindelwald? And don't think that the matter of your brandings has been dropped."

"Bugger," Harry groaned, slumping back into his hospital bed. "That uh- that's a long story, and I'm suddenly feeling very tired. I better get some rest. I'm still recovering, after all."

"Merlin, Harry. You can be a right piece of work, you know," Arcturus complained, sounding torn between amusement and exasperation.

"So I've been told, once or twice," he mumbled, not the least bit offended.

"Fine. Get some rest," Arcturus sighed. "But don't think that this discussion is over."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Harry quipped with a boyish grin that was only slightly triumphant.

* * *

Thanks for reading guys! And thanks to everyone that's following and to those who've left reviews! Really appreciate your comments and thoughts!


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

 **December 6th, 1941**

 **Slytherin Dormitory**

 _Sunset was upon them once again, but Harry didn't notice the sky's change in colour. He'd been staring out into the horizon for most of the day, once again lost in his mind-scape._

 _Since he'd arrived at his secluded sanctuary, that's how he'd spent most of his time—sitting lifelessly in front of his cottage trying his best not to break down._

 _He feared that even the slightest movement would send him into bouts of never-ending sobs, so he sat as still as a statue, trying to hold in his pain. And with unblinking eyes, he watched without seeing as the world kept turning while he was stuck—unable to move on with it._

 _The rage, betrayal, and heartache he felt had yet to abate. In fact, those feelings were now amplified by his absolute misery at missing_ _ **him**_ _._

 _He loathed the man—yet he missed him unbearably._

 _He didn't want to miss and yearn for him. He'd rather cling to his rage and allow everything else to wash away. But he couldn't because he misses him so terribly that his whole body ached with every forced breath that he took._

 _He couldn't help but think about what he'd done—couldn't help but feel a painful twinge of regret crawling up his ribcage as it fought its way to infiltrate his heart._

 _Had he done the right thing?_

 _Should he have fought for him?_

 _Should he have murdered him and destroyed his Horcruxes before he had the chance to spread his darkness into the world?_

" _I never thought I'd see you in this state of disarray over a boy," came the taunting voice of his only true companion._

 _Death had respected his wish for privacy and hadn't shown himself since he got here, but Harry should have known that he wouldn't stay gone for very long._

 _Harry didn't bother replying and simply kept on staring._

 _Death heaved a heavy sigh and sat down on the bench next to Harry._

" _What is it about him that makes you lose sight of everything else?" Death asked him curiously._

 _This drew a small helpless chuckle from Harry. "Fuck if I know," he muttered, voice hoarse and scratchy from all the weeks of disuse._

" _You did the right thing, Harry," he told him, not for the first time._

" _Did I, though?" he asked him, brokenly. "I've changed nothing. Everything is going to go exactly as it has before. Innocent people are going to die because I can't bring myself to murder my ex-lover," he spat, allowing the self-loathing that had been eating him up bubble up to the surface._

 _Death watched him from behind his hood and shook his head disappointedly. "It isn't your duty to save the mortals from themselves, Harry. Your only duty is to preserve the balance between the living and the dead and the balance of magic. You know this just as well as you know where those souls you are agonising over wander to once they are rid of this horrid world. Yet you still pity them—grieve for them—even though I know that you envy them and wish to follow after them beyond the veil."_

" _You cannot compare my existence to theirs," Harry exclaimed furiously before he abruptly sat up and started pacing. "I've lived long enough to be allowed to long for the sweet embrace of the afterlife, but those people—those_ children _…."_

" _Are not your responsibility," Death insisted once again, growing tired of the same old argument they were having. "Why don't we talk about what's really bothering you," he added before Harry could start arguing with him over trivial things the boy couldn't change—or rather, could change but didn't have to. "Riddle hurt your pride," Death told him in a simple, matter of fact tone, causing Harry's eyes to widen before they narrowed in indignation._

" _Hurt my pride?" Harry repeated, voice dark and smooth. "Hurt my fucking pride?" he intoned, impressively controlled if one considered the absolute rage that he was engulfed with. "The bastard lied to me, and he fucking cheated on me," he reminded him through gritted teeth. "That psychopath didn't hurt my pride, you insensitive asshole. He broke my fucking heart! And I'm bloody stupid enough to still love him even though he's nothing but a lying, narcissistic, piece of shit, whoremonger who I could eviscerate with my fucking pinky finger!" he screamed, scaring away all the birds and woodland creatures in the surrounding ten-mile radius._

 _At the end of that short tirade Harry was breathing heavily, and his face had gone a funny shade of red._

 _Death allowed him to get his breathing under control before he told him what he really thought about all this—completely without any tact, of course._

" _It still sounds to me like your pride was hurt," Death shrugged, relieved that he'd been able to get a reaction besides melancholy out of Harry._

" _You can't sit there and lecture me when you don't know what it's like to be in love—when you've never been carelessly thrown away like a piece of rubbish by the man you've helplessly fallen in love with. You've never experienced the devastation of heartbreak. My pride may be hurt because he decided to shag some bint, but I know that he didn't do it because he was dissatisfied with me. I know exactly why he did it, and it fucking burns to know that he chose his pursuit of immortality rather than a life with me—to know that his fear of death outweighed his love for me. I tossed aside my pride a long time ago—when I first decided to be with him—when I begged him every night to never leave me. No. This isn't a matter of pride, Death. It's a matter of losing the one thing that made me feel whole and connected to the world," he ended, his voice having gone soft and choked._

" _And here I was thinking that I was the other side of your coin. How very silly of me," Death muttered venomously._

Harry woke up with a jerk, the dream much too fresh in his mind—so much so that he had to forcibly stop his mind from picking up where it had left off.

Harry groaned and tiredly rubbed his hands over his face.

Knowing that it was pointless trying to get back to sleep, Harry put on some pants and t-shirt and went to run off some of his frustration.

* * *

It's been a week since Hadrian had woken up.

There had been a little incident with Hadrian disappearing from the Hospital Wing without a single word to anyone, which had jolted the whole castle into a frantic search for him. But he'd returned that same day when the sun had set and the Aurors had already been dispatched, safe and sound.

He'd returned with some poor explanation about wandering into the Forbidden Forest to clear his head and losing track of time.

Not that Tom had heard those lies from the wizard's own mouth. Since Tom hasn't had the pleasure of Hadrian's company since the attack, he had to rely on the gossip mill to obtain even the smallest spec of information on Hadrian.

All Tom had heard was that seeing as Hadrian had nearly given Madam Weaver a heart attack with his vanishing act, she'd kept him on lockdown in the Hospital Wing for the past week. It was also said that he hadn't even been allowed to use the privy without her supervision, but that might have been the added exaggeration people liked to include to spice up their gossip.

Hadrian was well, if still recovering.

Nothing else. Nothing concrete, that is.

Oh, there were speculations, whispers, and plenty of rumours flying about the castle. But that's all they were—rumours.

He'd wanted to go visit his emerald-eyed savour—to see with his own eyes that Hadrian was truly alive and well—but he'd managed to curb that urge, if only just barely. He'd still been much too confused about his nauseating concern for the older wizard and hadn't trusted himself not to act like a fool.

So he forced himself to wait for the right opportunity to confront Hadrian. And, perhaps, a small part of him had wanted to see if Hadrian would come to him….

But Hadrian has already been out of the Hospital Wing for over twenty-four hours, and he'd yet to approach him.

He wanted to deny feeling disappointed, but Tom wasn't in the habit of lying to himself.

He was disappointed—very disappointed.

He'd thought that something had changed between them during the battle.

He'd thought that the chaste kiss he'd placed on his forehead had meant something.

He'd thought that Hadrian saving his life meant that he _must_ feel the same way Tom felt about him.

Had that all been wishful thinking?

Had he misjudged the situation so thoroughly?

The previous evening, Hadrian had finally been released from his jail cell and had joined the rest of the castle for dinner in the Great Hall, and what an event it had turned out to be.

It was almost memorable—borderline inspiring really—the way the whole student body had stood up and cheered for Hadrian when he'd walked through the large doors of the Great Hall.

Green, red, blue, and yellow had clapped and wolf-whistled, and as one they had begun to chant his name over and over again, their cheers emphasized with the stomping of their feet.

The whole hall had rattled with their exuberant expression of gratitude.

It had been a rare show of school unity, but it appeared that Hadrian had a knack for accomplishing things that no one had thought possible. For instance, apparating through wards as if they weren't there, or taking a Killing Curse to the back and still living to tell the tale.

While Hadrian had looked alive and well, Tom hadn't been able to help but notice the lack of pulsing energy that usually surrounded him everywhere he went. Even his eyes had seemed a duller shade of green compared to their usual bright emerald colour.

Hadrian had smiled humbly at the roaring crowd, all the while nervously rubbing the back of his neck. He'd looked uncomfortable with the attention—which had been as surprising as it hadn't been.

He'd given the Hall a short, acknowledging nod and had then proceeded to swiftly take his place a few seats down from Tom, next to the Black clan and their acquaintances.

Not long after Hadrian had sat down, Potter had decided to join their little group. He'd caused quite the commotion when he'd tackled Hadrian and grabbed him in a friendly headlock, scolding him for scaring him the way he had.

Tom had enviously watched on as Hadrian smiled his way through dinner, joking and chuckling comfortably with anyone that dared approach him.

At first, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with the picture. Hadrian was surrounded by his friends and looked to be intently listening as they gushed about how he had saved the day. But when Tom had dared to take a closer look, he noticed that there was something bitter about Hadrian's smile, his posture was tense, and it appeared as if he was looking through his comrades, rather than at them.

Something had definitely been amiss with Hadrian last night, and that didn't seem to have changed over the past day. If anything, his distress had become more obvious—what with the way his shoulders were unusually hunched into himself, and the way he wasn't even bothering to feign interest in anyone's company.

Tom watched as Orion and Alphard Black exchange pointed and worried looks with one another. Which hadn't gone unnoticed by Hadrian, judging by the menacing glare he threw their way causing them both to hastily return their gazes back to their dinner.

Yes, something was definitely wrong with Hadrian, and Tom could help but be curious about the reason for his foul mood.

If Hadrian had been anyone else, Tom might have thought that he was affected by the events that took place in Hogsmeade. But that was quite improbable. No, he clearly remembered the malicious grin Hadrian wore throughout the battle. He'd looked almost…eager _—excited._

Tom sighed and turned his eyes back to his own dinner, chicken and mashed potatoes that he'd barely touched with his fork.

He was trying his best to follow the conversation around him, but Lestrange and Avery's babblings and squabbling were gnawing on his nerves even more than they usually did. So Tom nodded and smiled at the right times while keeping his eyes painfully averted from Hadrian.

Tom had been so intently focused on _not_ looking at Hadrian that he hadn't noticed him getting up and walking over to their little group until Malfoy announced his presence.

"Evening, Peverell," Abraxas greeted him with a reverence that was usually reserved for Tom.

Tom immediately turned around but schooled his features to hide the excitement he felt bubbling in his chest.

Had he come to seek him out after all?

Disappointedly, Tom noticed that the beautiful wizard had barely even spared him a glance, as his eyes were firmly fixed on the Malfoy heir.

"Malfoy," Hadrian inclined his head in short greeting. "Riddle," he added as an after-thought with the barest tilt of his head, his eyes never meeting Tom's.

At Hadrian's use of his surname and his blatant indifference to him, Tom had to forcefully stop his expression from shattering.

"Hadrian," Tom murmured pointedly but politely before showing his own faked disinterest by turning back to his untouched dinner.

There was no need to let Hadrian and everyone else at the table know that he was practically fuming on the inside. There was no need to let anyone know that his heart was squeezing uncomfortably in his chest, or that he felt a painful burn in his throat that threatened his ability to _breathe_.

Why? What had he done to him to be treated with such little regard?

Abraxas and the others looked puzzled at Tom's quick dismissal and wearily turned back to face Hadrian.

"Was there something you needed?" Abraxas asked him, trying to sound aloof and failing miserably, while Tom made a show of ignoring their conversation by taking a bite of his chicken.

"Yes, there is," Hadrian said, sounding none too pleased with himself. "I was wondering if you had a few moments to spare after dinner. There is an urgent matter that I wish to discuss with you. Privately, if possible," he added, and Tom had to stop himself from demolishing his dinner.

Abraxas dared a quick glance in Tom's direction, but his expression was as schooled as it has ever been, carefully hiding the murderous intent that filled the young wizard.

What could Hadrian possibly need to discuss with Malfoy that was so urgent?

Hadrian had made it abundantly clear that he didn't favour Malfoy's company, yet here he was, requesting to spend time with him— _privately_.

"That's fine," Malfoy agreed, giving Hadrian a small, hopeful, and shy smile that threatened to expel all contents from Tom's stomach. "In about half an hour, next to the common room entrance?" he suggested.

"That's perfect, thanks," Hadrian agreed. "I'll see you later, Malfoy. Riddle, Riddle's entourage," he said, bidding them good evening by tipping an invisible hat towards them before turning around and heading towards the exit.

His arrogance had never grated at Tom's nerves as it had just then.

How dare he almost completely ignore him and ask for a private audience with _Malfoy_?

He'd thought that they had grown closer than that, he'd really thought that…. But apparently, that had been a misconception and delusion on his end.

"What do you think he wants from you, Braxas?" It was Lestrange that braved the question, breaking the hushed silence that had fallen over their small group at Hadrian's arrival.

"Maybe he's finally taken note of your affections, Brax, my friend," teased Rosier, giving him a hard slap on the back. Everyone gave a small chuckle at Malfoy's expense, but to his credit, Malfoy just shrugged off their jeering and rolled his eyes.

"I highly doubt that he's going to be inviting me to Hogsmeade, or have you forgotten that they've cancelled all visits until further notice? No one is allowed to venture out into the village," he sighed, bemoaning his luck.

Rosier scoffed and sent Malfoy a nasty smirk, and Tom just knew that he was about to sprout something incredibly obscene. "He doesn't need to take you out to lunch in Hogsmeade to drag you into a broom closet and shove his co—"

"That's enough," Tom injected with a firm, commanding tone. He didn't want to hear the cretin finish that crass statement. "There's no need to be tasteless, Rosier," he all but hissed, but he quickly composed himself. "After all, we're still in the Great Hall, with several young and impressionable ears surrounding us. I'd advise you to watch your tongue from now on. I can't always be here to save you from making a fool of yourself," he chastised before smoothly wiping his mouth on his napkin and gracefully standing up.

He ignored the way they were all staring at him and said, "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a Potions essay that needs to be finished." He didn't wait for a reply before taking his leave from their company, too afraid that he'd accidentally strangle one of them if they dared to open their mouth.

Instead of walking straight to his dorm room as he first intended, Tom felt his feet carrying him into the opposite direction, and in no time at all he found himself standing in front of the abandoned classroom where he and Harry had practised that damnable Patronus charm.

With an almost feral snarl, he slammed open the door, relishing in the loud and satisfying crash that echoed around the empty classroom.

He pushed into the room and with a harsh flick of his wand the door slammed shut behind him.

Not a moment later, Tom was firing away lethal spells at the innocent furniture pushed to the back of the room.

Spell after spell left his wand for what seemed like hours.

He hated Hadrian Peverell.

Hated his smirk and his eyes.

Hated the way he moved and the way he knew everything.

Hated the way he casts spells and the way he was everything Tom wanted to be.

Hated how he didn't look at him.

Hated how he dismissed him.

Hated how he couldn't _stop_ thinking about him.

Hated him completely.

Yet he wasn't in a habit of lying to himself. So, while he hated Hadrian Peverell so completely—he also didn't hate him at all.

But how he wished he did—

No, Tom wished he felt nothing at all.

When there was nothing left in the room for Tom to blow into smithereens, he sank to the floor and pulled his knees into his chest, fighting off the irrational sobs that threatened to spill out of him.

Tom savagely dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, hoping that the action would prevent the ridiculous tears from pouring out of them, and it worked, for the most part, but he suspected that it had more to do with the distraction offered by the stinging pain he now felt in his eye sockets.

He shook his head and rolled his shoulders, trying his damndest to regain his composure.

This sort of behaviour was completely unacceptable to him. Nothing should be able to make him fall apart and turn him into an angry, trembling mess. He'd not cried a single tear since the tender age of three, and he wasn't about to change that just because Hadrian Peverell decided that he wasn't worth his time.

Even snapping at Rosier the way he had, had been a grave mistake.

If no one had caught on to his affections for Peverell before, they sure have now. After all, they had all been sorted into Slytherin for a reason, and reading between the lines just so happens to be one of their specialities.

He was a mudblood-nobody that didn't have a single penny to his name. He couldn't afford to make mistakes. He couldn't afford to show weakness. And that's exactly what he'd just done.

He'd allowed his anger and jealousy to get the better of him.

 _Never again._

Tom growled angrily with himself and pulled himself up from the grimy floor. He flicked his wand to vanish the dirt and wood-dust from his robes before leaving the room with the intention of never stepping foot in there again.

* * *

Since Tom had not wanted to risk the possibility of running into Hadrian and Abraxas while they were having their little tête-à-tête, he'd decided to walk aimlessly around the castle.

Once he'd felt sure that a sufficient amount of time had passed, he'd started making his way to the dungeons, wanting nothing more than to collapse onto his bed and fall into a dreamless sleep.

Tom was just about to turn the last corner leading to their common room entrance when he heard a couple of hushed voices that stopped in his tracks. His curiosity was instantly piqued when he identified the voices as the Black cousins.

"I know he's a big boy, Al! But we can't just let him go on like this," Tom heard Orion insist. "I don't care what you say. _This_ isn't normal. He's been avoiding everyone's questions since he came back from wherever he disappeared to, and he won't talk to us unless it's about the Wizengamot. And frankly, I've grown bloody tired of legal talk. I get enough of that from my father."

"You know how hard he's worked for this, Orion. He's simply anxious about the votes right now—"

"It's not about the votes, Al," Orion interrupted him, sounding frustrated. "You know as well as I do that he's got that appeal in the bag. And even if it were about the votes, since when does he drown himself in firewhisky? He's not been sober since Madame Weaver released him from the Hospital Wing," Orion hissed.

"And what do you want me to do about that?" Alphard snapped back. "You're not the only one he's shut out, Orion. Don't you think that I've already tried to talk some sense into him? I _did_. And I tried to take the bottle away from him, but a fat load of good that did me. He just handed me the bottle and fished another one out of his trunk before walking off to Merlin knows where."

This was an intriguing piece of information Tom has stumbled upon.

So Hadrian had been ignoring everyone, not just Tom. His indifference towards Tom hadn't been anything personal, and for some reason that made Tom feel much better about himself.

He was even ready to gamble that the appeal the Blacks mentioned was the only reason Hadrian took Abraxas aside.

Yes, Tom was feeling _much_ better, indeed.

He could definitely forgive Hadrian for using Abraxas to manipulate his father's votes.

What he didn't like, and was much less forgiving about, was the fact that Hadrian had turned to the drink. He absolutely abhorred _drunks_. But Tom figured that he must have his reasons for acting so...unseemly.

When Tom heard Orion start talking again, he quickly turned his attention back to the cousins.

"But you've been inside his head, right? So you must have an inkling about what's pushed him into this state. You wouldn't speak after you—"

"I've already told you that I'm not going to discuss what I saw, Orion," Alphard warned him.

"I know! I'm not asking you to! But if anyone knows what's wrong with him, it's you," the younger Black insisted.

"What's your point?"

"It's just…. You would tell me if you think he's going to hurt himself, wouldn't you?" he asked him in a small, meek tone—as if saying those words any louder would cause the whole world to fracture.

"Hurt himself?" Alphard repeated incredulously, resonating Tom's own internal exclamation. "What? Where in Morgana's name is this coming from? Harry would never do something like that," Alphard quickly reassured him with a scoff, and there was a kind of solid certainty in his tone that baffled Tom. He said what he said earnestly...but it sounded wrong—as if there was a different meaning to his words than what they actually meant.

Not that Tom thought that Hadrian was capable of suicide, but there was something about Alphard's tone that raised alarm bells in his head.

"Are you sure? Because last night I followed him to the Astronomy Tower, Al. He just stood at the edge, looking down at the drop...and, Merlin, I thought he was going to- to jump," he whispered, so low that Tom almost didn't catch it.

There was a long stretched pause, and Tom could almost see Alphard Black's stumped expression at that new bit of information, an expression that was probably mirroring Tom's own.

"I can see how that might worry you," Alphard said, suddenly sounding very gentle. "But believe me when I say that whatever Hadrian is going through right now isn't enough for him to consider offing himself. We just need to give him some space and show him that we're here for him, and he'll be back to his arrogant self in no time at all," he told him reassuringly.

There was a short pause and then a small sigh from the younger Black.

"I hope you're right, Al. I don't want to lose him. I know it's silly, but he is family, you know? And not just because our Family Magic has accepted him."

"I know, Orion. It's hard not to love him, isn't it?" Alphard asked his younger cousin with a touch of sad longing in his tone.

There was another pause—longer this time. Tom heard Orion clear his throat and he could picture him fidgeting nervously in his spot.

"Al-" Orion said, sounding even more awkward then he usually did. "I know that it's not my place to say this, but- uhm- I- that is... I'm sure that as long as it's what you _both_ wanted, that- right." Orion cleared his throat and finally managed to spit out, "Well, I'm sure that my father would give you his blessing,"

Tom heard Alphard groan and he must have sent his cousin a heated glare, going on his next comment.

" _What_? It's not like you kept your interest much of a secret. So, all I'm saying is that _if_ you do decide to court him…" he trailed off suggestively. "I don't think there is anything the old man would deny Harry," he added somewhat bitterly.

Tom grit his teeth and ground his jaw together, but forced himself to continue listening.

Alphard chuckled humorlessly.

"If there is one thing I learned from my trip into Harry's mind, it's that we would never work."

Tom never thought that the occasion would arise where he and Alphard Black would be in agreement, but as unfathomable as it was, it had just happened.

So maybe Alphard Black wasn't going to be as big as an obstacle as he'd first thought he was going to be. That is, until he heard the older wizard's next words.

"But that's not to mean that I would turn him away should he invite himself to my bed. I wouldn't be opposed to a nice, hard romp with him. I'm sure he'd be fabu—"

"And that's about as much as I ever want to hear about your fantasies, Al," Orion said, sounding slightly sick—Tom could relate.

Having eavesdropped quite enough on the Black cousins, Tom turned around and started making his way to the Astronomy Tower—his gait quick and purposeful.

If Orion Black had seen Hadrian there the day before, it was quite possible that he found himself back there again. Perhaps it's where he'd been going all along.

Once Tom reached the Astronomy Tower, he was disappointed to see that Hadrian was nowhere to be found.

After a few seconds of deliberation, Tom strode toward the large, open window and leaned over, tilting his upper body just enough to stare down at the death-drop below.

He wondered what Harry saw in the darkness that swallowed and obscured the ground below—what he thought of.

Tom saw Death's outstretched arms waiting to deliver him into the nothingness that came after life. Maybe that's why he recoiled and stepped away from the railing, trying to swallow down the bile of fear that had lodged itself in his throat.

He gave his surroundings one last glance before turning on his heels to leave when he suddenly heard some odd movement coming from the roof.

He waited for a moment, but sure enough, there it was again—that heavy thud.

Since he was already there, Tom saw no harm in going ahead and checking the roof. And sure enough, Hadrian was casually laying there, looking up at the night sky with a bottle of firewhisky firmly clasped in his right hand. He was reclined on his left elbow, with his right knee bent while his other leg dangled off the edge of the roof.

He looked so very handsome in the moonlight, even with his hair pulled up into a sloppy bun and his uniform in a state of utter dishevelment.

Taking a deep breath, Tom climbed the few remaining steps and made his way towards where Hadrian was sitting.

He almost lost his balance when he heard Hadrian's husky voice roughly snap at him.

"I thought I told you to stay the fuck away from me."

Since he'd done no such thing, Tom assumed that Hadrian mistook him for someone else. Apparently, someone that was privy to his secret hiding place. Before he could let his mind wander too far, he cleared his throat and made himself known.

"Hadrian? It's me, Tom," he said, wincing at how shy and timid he sounded.

Hadrian lazily tipped his head back in his direction, looking confused at his presence.

"Riddle? What are you doing up here?" he asked him before tilting his face back to the stars.

Tom took that as an invitation and moved to sit a foot or so away from him. Tom's posture was much less relaxed than Hadrian's as he was far too aware of the death-threatening drop a scant few inches in front of him.

"I came looking for you," he said, seeing no point in lying to him.

When Hadrian didn't say anything, Tom tipped up his head in the same manner Hadrian had done.

"Did you get what you needed from Braxas?" he asked him, unable to curb his curiosity.

It took a few beats, but finally, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Hadrian give him a single nod.

"Yes, Malfoy was most accommodating," he said a touch sarcastically.

"That's good," Tom mumbled, unsurprised with Abraxas' facile cooperation with whatever Hadrian wanted from him.

They sat in silence for a long while after that, simply staring up at the sky and gazing at the bright, twinkling lights. Tom didn't mind, sitting with Hadrian was enough to soothe the fierce longing he'd felt for the other wizard.

"Can I ask you something, Riddle?" Hadrian finally spoke, not tearing his gaze away from the sky, and Tom was pleased to note that his speech wasn't all that slurred.

"Tom," he reminded him quickly, allowing himself to turn around to face him. "It's Tom," he repeated, more firmly this time, and he watched as the corner of Hadrian's lips twisted up in dry amusement.

"Right, Tom," Hadrian agreed. "Can I ask you something then, _Tom_?" he asked again, and Tom couldn't help but feel slightly ridiculed at the way he accentuated his name.

"Go ahead," he said, deciding to let it slide, just that once. Tom then tilted his head to the side, curiously waiting to hear what was on Hadrian's mind.

"Do you believe that anything can be forgiven?" Hadrian asked him airily, obviously still lost in his own thoughts and only half listening for an answer.

It was an unexpected question, though Tom wasn't exactly sure _what_ he'd been expecting.

It was an easy question to which he had a quick and swift reply, but he knew that his view on such matters wasn't exactly normal, or _Christian_ , as the matron in the orphanage would say.

To answer honestly or lie?

Before Tom could make up his mind, Harry released a short but loud, bark-like laugh.

"Of course you don't," he chuckled. "I know I didn't at your age, and Merlin knows I'm quite capable of holding grudges."

Tom wasn't sure what to say to that and guessed correctly that he wasn't really expected to say anything at all as Hadrian was off asking another baffling question.

"Do you believe that everything that happens to us is preordained, Tom?"

"You mean, like, destiny and fate?" Tom asked him, unable to stop the incredulity from leaking into his tone.

Hadrian hummed in absent-minded agreement. "I suppose," he said before taking a long swing from his bottle. Tom winced and averted his eyes for a moment, mulling over the question.

"I don't know," he finally admitted, "but I'd rather believe that we make our own destiny. It sends my skin crawling, thinking that there is some higher deity manipulating my life," he cringed even as he said it, shuddering in disgust at the concept.

Finally, Hadrian turned around to look at him and gave him a small, sad smile. "I don't like to believe in destiny either, but it's easier to believe when you need someone to blame, isn't it?" he said with an air of guilty confession, though what he was confessing to, Tom didn't know.

Tom's brows furrowed, but he didn't dare ask what Hadrian was trying to blame on destiny. Somehow he knew that he wouldn't get a straight answer even if he did ask.

Hadrian went back to his stargazing and they slipped back into silence, but it wasn't as comfortable as had been before.

Every time Hadrian and Tom conversed he was left with more questions than he'd started with, and it was slowly driving him mad.

"You're the most confusing person I've ever met, you know that?" Tom told him.

Hadrian chuckled, and Tom couldn't help but feel as if he was missing the punchline to a private joke.

Little did Tom know that Hadrian had once told an older version of him the exact same thing, in the very spot he was now sitting in.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Harry smirked, then indulged in another long sip of firewhisky causing Tom to wrinkle his nose disapprovingly.

Tom had no idea how Hadrian did it. He knew from first-hand experience that that stuff tasted vile—to be able to gulp down such large quantities of that swill was highly disgusting, yet somewhat impressive at the same time.

"It wasn't meant as one," Tom mumbled exasperatingly, restraining himself from snatching the bottle from him. The drunk act honestly didn't suit Hadrian at all.

"You almost died," Tom said, trying to work his way towards the questions he's been desperately wanting to ask him.

Hadrian glanced at him from the corner of his eyes and raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Which time would you be referring to?"

"You should be dead," was all Tom managed to say, not bothering to hide his awe.

Hadrian gave him a quick, sideways glance before taking another swing from his bottle.

"Still stuck on that, are you?" he asked him with a grimace that had nothing to do with the burning liquor he's been inhaling. "I was hoping you'd forgotten about that by now," he sighed, running a hand through his messy black hair.

"Forgotten about it? You cannot be serious," Tom frowned, wondering, and not for the first time, about how stable Hadrian's mentality actually was.

"Tell me, Tom. Let's say, hypothetically, that I did survive the Killing Curse. What were you planning on doing with that information?" He didn't sound threatening as he asked that, merely curious, if not somewhat indifferent towards Tom's answer.

"I won't tell anyone if that's what you're wondering," Tom hurried to reassure him. "I've kept my silence, as you've asked, and will continue doing so. But I can't help but wonder _how_ you did it," he said honestly. "Even if I weren't as academically driven as I am, I'd still be most curious to find out how you managed such a...feat. I'd have to be a complete simpleton not to be curious, Hadrian."

Harry searched his face, probably trying to gauge his sincerity.

"What if I told you that I don't know how I did it?"

Tom answered promptly and without hesitation. "I wouldn't believe you," he said, with a tone that suggested that he not take him for a fool.

That drew a genuine laugh from Hadrian. "Course you wouldn't," he said through his grin, shaking his head. "And what if I told you that it's not something you can recreate? Would you believe me then?"

Tom narrowed his eyes at the dark-haired boy that had somehow managed to irrevocably steal his attention.

Did he believe him?

"I don't know," Tom replied truthfully. "But even if I did believe you, I'd still want to know how you accomplished what none before you have been able to."

Hadrian smirked at him.

"Best you forget it ever happened, Tom. You don't want me to have to do something we both rather I didn't," Hadrian warned him with an air of finality that Tom couldn't ignore.

That wasn't the answer that Tom had been looking for, but he knew that pressing the matter would only push the wizard further away from him.

He'd simply have to try again some other day.

Someday, Tom will know all of Hadrian's secrets. All he had to do was exert some patience.

Tom bit his bottom lip, before saying what he'd actually meant to say all along.

"Thank you," he finally rushed out, expressing sincere gratitude for the first time in his life. "For saving my life," he clarified when he noticed Hadrian's brows furrowing in startled confusion.

In the end, it didn't really matter _how_ Hadrian had done it, just that he had. Without his intervention, he would have died that day.

Harry's only answer was a short nod of his head before he turned his emerald eyes back to the stars.

Tom, too, turned his gaze back towards the stars, even if the only thing he yearned to look at was the fallen angel sitting right beside him.

"Thank you for helping Orion with Charms," Hadrian mumbled after a few moments of silence, causing Tom's cheeks to heat up.

"It was nothing," he said, pleased that Black had mentioned it to Hadrian. He hadn't been sure that he would.

The next second, a sharp gust of wind blew around them, causing Tom to shiver and his teeth to chatter.

Before he could even think about putting a warming charm on himself, he saw Hadrian casually flick his wrist and suddenly a tingling warmth spread throughout his limbs.

Tom smiled at the gesture.

"I'm sure that you've already been told, especially over the past few days, but you're a rather impressive wizard, Hadrian."

"It was just a warming charm, Tom," Hadrian shrugged, taking another swing from his bottle.

Tom turned his head to Harry with a disapproving frown on his face. "Don't play coy. That's not what I was referring to, and you know it."

Harry raised his brows. "I do?" he asked him, his lips twitching amusedly.

Tom huffed and rolled his eyes.

"Your prowess is not in question, not with anyone and definitely not with me. Not after everything that I've seen you do."

Harry hummed as if it didn't matter either way.

"Why do you hide yourself, Hadrian?" he asked him, unable to stop himself.

Hadrian turned to glance at him, his amusement completely washed away from his face. He gave a small sigh as if carefully weighing his next words.

"Public opinion is a very fickle thing, Tom," he finally said, his eyes intently focused on him. "People aren't generally very accepting of what they don't understand, and for what I've got planned, I need them to accept me. I can't have them be any more suspicious of me than they already are."

"Wouldn't showing them what you're capable of make them accept you on principle because you're their superior?" Tom questioned, honestly befuddled by his reasoning.

"Maybe," Harry relented but didn't sound too convinced. "Or maybe they would turn on me because they are afraid. Afraid of what I'm capable of doing to them. Afraid that I couldn't be stopped. Afraid of what they can't make sense of. Especially now with tensions so high."

Tom could understand—somewhat. But he still thought that any resistance could simply be brought to heel if you're powerful enough.

But, well, if Hadrian wanted to play it that way, it was his prerogative. Although, that will be significantly more difficult for him to accomplish with all the exposure he had during the battle. If he suddenly reverted back to acting mediocre people would become even more suspicious of him, and he told him as much.

Hadrian nodded and looked away from him, bringing the bottle back to his lips for a quick swing.

"It's all about balance," he said, his voice rough from the whisky. "Give them enough to admire but not enough for them to fear. It's all a waiting game at this stage. At the battle, I flipped the coin. Now I just have to see what it lands on."

Tom looked at him—really looked at him. Hadrian looked dishevelled, but he'd already noticed that before. But now he saw the dark bags under his eyes and the way his young face was marred with worry lines.

"Is that what's had you so out of sorts these past few days?" Tom pried, gesturing pointedly towards the bottle in his hand.

Hadrian whipped his head around, his lovely eyes going round and wide.

Was he shocked that he'd noticed or that he'd dared broach the subject?

"Can't I celebrate the fact that I'm alive?" Harry asked him a bit too defensively.

"I think that you would look more jovial if that were the case. As it is, you look like someone has hung your rabbit."

Harry choked on his next breath, which sent him into a small coughing fit.

"What?" Tom demanded. "Puppy analogies are overused."

"Sure," Harry said placatingly, sounding mortified and amused in equal measure.

"So?" Tom pressed when he saw that Hadrian wasn't going to answer him.

Hadrian took another quick gulp of his whisky and shrugged.

"No, it's about something else," he finally admitted with a hoarse voice, and it was clear that he wasn't planning on saying any more.

Not that Tom was deterred.

"They say that a burden shared is a burden halved," he prodded gently.

Harry gave him a small smile. "Perhaps. But this is a burden I have to carry on my own, Tom."

Tom deliberated on asking again, his inquisitive nature begging him to, but as he watched Harry take one of the longest swings of firewhiskey yet, he decided not to.

"Alright then. If you change your mind, you know where to find me," he offered instead, hoping beyond hope that he would take him up on it sometime.

After that, they sat in relatively comfortable silence for a while longer—long enough for Hadrian to have polished off the previously full bottle of firewhisky.

Once the last drop had been consumed, Hadrian abruptly stood up on shaky legs, clearly inebriated, and Tom was quick to get up on his feet and offer his arm for Hadrian to steady himself on.

Hadrian blinked his misty eyes several times before slurring out, "Thanks for that," and taking Tom's pre-offered arm.

Tom gave a small worried sigh and started leading Hadrian carefully to the ladder that would take them back to solid ground.

They had almost managed to ascend without injury when Hadrian slipped on the last step, which sent him to the ground with a resounding thud that made Tom gasp and wince.

"Hadrian?" he asked as he jumped down the last two steps. He really should have known to go down before him. "Are you alright?" he asked him worriedly as he crouched down next to him.

"Fuck," Hadrian wheezed, the fall having knocked all the air out of him. "That's what I get for drinking excessively," he mumbled as he rubbed at the back of his aching head, sending out some healing magic to the bump he could feel forming there.

"Hadrian, how many fingers am I holding up?" Tom questioned as he held up two fingers, hoping that Hadrian wasn't concussed. It was past curfew, and they couldn't afford to go to the Hospital Wing.

"I'm fine. Drunk. Not concussed," he slurred, batting away Tom's hand while he tried to refocus his eyes, which was hard considering the three bottles of whiskey he'd polished away that day. What he did see when he regained focus of his sight was Tom's concerned expression on his angelic face.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," Harry mumbled stupidly before reaching out to gently caress Tom's cheek.

Tom's eyes widened at the blunt statement, and his breath hitched when the tips of Hadrian's fingers gently brushed against his skin.

Not knowing what to say or do, Tom just stayed rooted in his spot hovering over Hadrian's face, wide-eyed and unable to tear his gaze away from those hypnotising, dark emeralds.

"So fucking beautiful," Hadrian murmured again as he ran his thumb over his bottom lip. His delicate touch and husky voice sending an anticipatory shiver down Tom's spine.

Tom had to gulp back a small moan, not wanting to break the trance they found themselves in, which he found increasingly hard to do when Hadrian decided to run a knuckle down the length of his neck.

Tom's rational side understood that Hadrian wasn't exactly in control of his own actions, he also knew that it was somewhat despicable of him to take advantage of this situation. But he reasoned that it had been Hadrian that started this—whatever _this_ was.

"Merlin," Hadrian breathed, sounding pained. "You've no idea how badly I want to kiss you, Tom," he groaned, running his fingers through Tom's soft hair.

Tom felt the statement go straight to his groin, exciting him in ways he's never felt before.

His heart was beating furiously in his chest—he burned and ached all over—and somehow he knew that Hadrian's touch was the only thing that would be able to soothe the fire racing over every inch of him.

"Do it then," Tom almost begged in a hoarse whisper and traced the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip—unknowingly breaking any resolve Harry had left.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

 **December 6th, 1941**

 **Astronomy Tower, Hogwarts**

Once their lips connected in a chaste kiss, Harry lost himself to the thrumming heartbeat in his ears—lost himself to the spicy taste of fresh apples and cinnamon and in the warm, heady scent embracing him that smelled so decidedly _Tom_.

He was rendered incapable of any thought beyond that Tom was standing extremely close to him, his lips moving oh so sweetly against his own. Everything else drifted away from his mind. He forgot where or _when_ he was—forgot the circumstances that brought him to that moment—and he forgot everything else that had been troubling him.

Harry pulled away for a brief moment to take in the sight of a flustered Tom dazedly looking at him through hooded, grey eyes filled with confused longing and warm cheeks tinged a delectable pink colour.

Harry was in a trance, the same trance he'd always fallen into when he stared into those deep silver pools that threatened to swallow his whole existence.

Harry gravitated towards Tom—unable to do anything but follow the unavoidable force of nature reeling him in—and when their lips met again in another chaste kiss, he felt a sense of rightness and homecoming settle over his skin, cloaking him in a familiar comforting warmth that he'd never managed to replicate with anyone else.

Their magic reached out to one another, humming contentedly and buzzing with excited and anticipatory energy that sent sparks over their already heated skin.

Their touch of lips was tentative—soft and gentle in a way that painfully stole Harry's breath away.

It was the type of kiss he'd always longed for Tom to indulge him in but until now had never received.

 _It was different…._

The thought came unbidden, but Harry couldn't deny that the kiss they were sharing was different—better and worse in a way that suddenly had him immensely disoriented.

Harry was struck by that distinctive _unfamiliarity_ of the situation, and that slow seeping realisation abruptly turned the warmth that had seconds previously been fanning a fire in his heart, into a biting chill that snuffed out the flame.

It was a clear warning from his subconscious, that much Harry was aware of—but he ignored it—ignored the sudden wrongness of the kiss because Tom tasted as divine as he always did, and it felt like they hadn't done this in forever.

But the wrongness persisted.

Tom— _his Tom_ —had never kissed him with such caution and tenderness.

This kiss was filled with longing and promise—so very unlike the possessive and demanding kisses that they usually shared….

' _Something is wrong,'_ Harry's mind whispered, more urgently this time.

The kiss was too _sweet_. So sweet, in fact, that it was almost dreamlike. But if it was indeed a dream, it was one of the nicer ones he's had of late because for the past week all he could think and dream about was…gold and blue, the most breathtaking shade of blue….

Suddenly his world widened beyond silver pools and soft lips, and he _remembered_.

This wasn't a dream, and this young wizard kissing him wasn't _his Tom_.

Harry abruptly pulled away from Tom, who was looking down at him with glazed eyes. His breaths were coming out in short gasps as he tried to gather his bearings, but before Tom could think to voice his annoyance and disappointment, Harry was already talking.

"My name is Hadrian James Peverell, and today is the sixth December 1941," Harry croaked monotonously as the horrible truth of the situation finally sank in.

"Hadrian?" Tom asked, baffled confusion clouding his shaky voice. He slowly dropped his hand from around Harry's neck and inched away from him, but didn't move from his kneeling position next to him—feeling much too stumped to move.

Completely sobered up by the ice rushing through his veins, Harry turned his apologetic gaze towards Tom.

"Merlin," he breathed, feeling completely aghast at his actions. He needed to do damage control, and quickly. "Please accept my sincerest apologies, Tom," he rushed out as he hastily got up from his sprawled position on the floor.

"I've behaved inappropriately. I shouldn't have—" Harry abruptly cut-off when his sudden movement caused his world to briefly go white. But he kept his gaze focused on where he knew Tom was standing, allowing himself a moment to regain his equilibrium.

Once his eyes refocused, he saw Tom staring back at him with an angry and frustrated expression on his face.

"There was nothing inappropriate about your behaviour, Hadrian. I consented to the kiss," Tom reminded him, sounding much calmer than he actually felt.

Tom was trying to reassure himself that Hadrian had only pulled away because of a sense of propriety, but he couldn't get rid of the horror-stricken expression on Hadrian's face when he'd first pulled away from him. It raised a sense of insecurity and inadequacy within him that he'd not experienced in a long time.

Harry ran a hand over his face and shook his head. "That's not the point, Tom. You're only fourteen and I've taken advantage—"

"Taken advantage of me?" Tom roughly interjected, sounding insulted. "Do you honestly think so little of me that you'd assume me incapable of defending myself from any unwanted advances?" he hissed, eyes narrowed and firmly glaring at Harry. "I'm not some damsel in need of your protection, Hadrian."

Where did he come off? Treating Tom as if he were a _child_. If what transpired between them was so horrifying to Hadrian he should at least have the decency to admit that to his face rather than make-up idle excuses.

Harry winced and anxiously worried his bottom lip between his pearly-white teeth.

"Tom," he intoned somewhat pleadingly. "Even if we are mutually attracted to one another, this shouldn't have happened. You're still very young—" he tried again, but Tom was quick to cut him off once more.

"I'm turning fifteen in a few weeks," he told him, in a tone that implied that the matter should be resolved and dropped, but it _really_ wasn't. "And what does age matter anyway? It's nothing but an irrelevant number."

Harry sighed and leaned tiredly against the cold, uneven brick wall behind him. "It matters," he insisted. "It matters because you're young and perhaps even confused. You need to be sure that you want this, and that you want it for the right reasons."

As soon as those words left his mouth he instantly regretted them, knowing without a shred of doubt that that had been the wrong thing to say.

Tom's whole body tensed as he tried to conceal the rage that flared within him, bringing forth with it a burst of magic that was hard to contain.

"Who are you to assume to know my mind? To dismiss and belittle my affections so callously?"

Harry's eyes widened at the accusation and felt a sudden pang of guilt that almost broke his resolve.

"That wasn't my intention," he mumbled softly, hoping that Tom was able to hear the sincerity he tried to convey. But judging by his tense posture and the magic he felt crackling in the air, his words seemed to have done nothing to placate Tom's anger.

Harry knew that Tom felt rejected, but what could he do? He wasn't in the right state of mind to deal with this right then. It simply wasn't the time for...for whatever this was—period.

"What happened to him?" Tom abruptly demanded while defensively crossing his arms over his chest.

Harry tilted his head to the side, feeling highly confused at the sudden turn of questioning.

"Excuse me?"

"What happened to the wizard I've been watching for the past few months? The wizard that simply burned with power and energy? The one touched by darkness and who had the initiative to take anything he wanted?"

Harry's face hardened at those words. "I don't know what you're talking about," he dismissed, albeit, there was not much conviction behind his words.

"Don't you?" pushed the younger boy, a cruel, sarcastic smirk slipping onto his angelic face while his right eyebrow rose mockingly. "I've seen you earn respect by inspiring fear, and I've seen you inflicting pain. I've seen you masquerade in several masks to gain popularity, and I've seen you manipulate everyone around you to get them to dance to your pretty tune. You simply take everything you want, Hadrian," he told him amusedly, daring him to contradict him. "And I _know_ that you want me."

Harry managed to restrain himself from flinching, but only barely.

Unable to dispute any of the truth Tom spoke, Harry turned away from him, feeling no small amount of shame bubbling up to the surface.

' _Touched by darkness_ ,' he'd said, and wasn't that just the most painful truth of all?

Tom thought him corrupt and unperturbed by social norms and laws. He saw in him a kindred spirit—tainted by the harsh realities of the world.

Tom had said similar words to him before—in a different life—and the memory came back to him unbidden, pushing itself to the forefront of his mind.

" _We are of a kind, you and I. Seams woven tightly by power and touched by darkness."_

" _Hardly," Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes._

" _You can lie to yourself all you like, Harry, but I see you just as clearly as you see me."_

" _Is pillow talk meant to be this philosophical? I can think of a few other things I'd rather be doing than discussing our mutual darkness, Tom."_

Harry quickly shook himself out of that memory and turned his attention back towards the present Tom. Tom who was still wearing that wicked smirk of his.

"You're not denying it, Hadrian. So tell me, what does it really matter if I'm young? Isn't it healthy for me to explore my sexuality? It could almost be considered your duty to assist me—a fellow housemate—who has found himself feeling perplexed by these unusual… _urges._ "

His tone was soothing, and his logic far too convincing, and for a moment Harry once again felt his resolve falter.

Hadrian's hesitance gave Tom confidence. He smirked and stepped closer to the older boy, looking at him coyly from under his lashes.

"There is absolutely no reason why we shouldn't allow ourselves to pursue what both of us clearly desire," he reasoned with him, then he reached out to place a hand over Harry's rapidly beating heart.

Tom paused for a moment, a possessive glint crossed over his eyes—undoubtedly feeling Harry's helpless reaction to his proximity. Self-satisfied smirk in place, Tom stepped even closer, pushing their chest together while he slid his hand up to his neck. "I could have easily chosen another seventh-year student, and no one would have batted an eyelash at my decision."

Harry grew tense at the mention of Tom with anyone else. It was much too sore a subject for him. He was just about to push Tom away, but Tom must have noticed his error and quickly pressed on. "But I don't want any other student, Hadrian. I want _you_ to teach me. I desire _your_ touch on my bare skin. _Your_ lips against my own."

Harry gasped and closed his eyes, trying to ignore his stirring arousal at the images Tom's words painted.

"Stop denying yourself," Tom coaxed, leaning forward to place a featherlight kiss on his neck. "Stop fighting it," he whispered enticingly into his ear, making Harry's head thump against the wall.

The new angle allowed Tom to place a soft kiss to his throat, enjoying the small moan that escaped involuntarily from Hadrian's lips.

Tom slid his hand from around Harry's neck and allowed his long fingers to travel down his chest and to his ribs, where he knew the Rune Brandings were hidden. Then he dragged his palm down to rest over Harry's navel, just short of the bulge that Tom was certain was hidden beneath Hadrian's trousers.

"Let me show you how much I want this," Tom murmured lazily, pressing a gentle kiss below Harry's ear. "Don't you want—"

"Stop," Harry breathed, trying to retract the lust that threatened to burst between them. "We can't do this, Tom. You- I..." he trailed off, wincing at how breathless he sounded.

Tom narrowed his eyes but didn't push away from him. If anything, he pressed himself closer to Harry.

"I want you, Hadrian," he murmured seductively, "and I usually get what I want."

Those words—in all their horrible familiarity—broke any hold Tom had gained over Harry.

Those words reminded him too much of a familiar situation with an older version of the boy in front of him.

Those words reminded him of all his plans.

They also reminded him that they were nowhere near ready to do what Tom was proposing.

Things had to be different this time around.

Drawing in a deep breath, Harry gently pushed Tom away from him, earning himself a bewildered look from the younger boy. But Tom quickly schooled his expression and his beautiful eyes turned into liquid steel.

Harry almost regretted his decision—almost—but he knew that he'd made the right decision.

"I really am sorry, Tom. I'm not going to lie and say that I don't find myself drawn to you. And I'm not going to belittle you by saying that you're too young. But right now…. Right now is just not the right time for me. There are certain things that I need to handle before I can enter into any form of relationship—physical or otherwise," he quickly added, knowing what argument Tom would use against him.

"Is there someone else?" Tom asked him coldly, and Harry was taken aback by the sharpness in his tone.

He recognised that sharpness—it was the kind Tom used to hide his emotional pain. Was the possibility of him with someone else already so unsettling to him? It was hard to conceive.

"Someone else?" he asked him, watching closely for Tom's reaction.

Tom's left eye twitched. "Yes, Hadrian. I'm asking if there is someone standing between us," he stated curtly, uncharacteristically blunt. But his voice was controlled—unlike the magic Harry felt gathering around Tom. His magic was dark, possessive, and invasive, and it was making Harry all kinds of uncomfortable.

"Not exactly," Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Not in the way that you mean. But I suppose it does have to do with another individual. It's complicated, to say the least. I've recently regained a few memories, you see," he said, surprising himself with his honesty, "and I'm still processing through them. It's been a rough week and I'm- I'm sorry," he whispered.

Before Tom could ask him any more questions, Harry turned on his heels and left, feeling equally relieved and disappointed when Tom hadn't tried to stop him.

* * *

It was late into the night, so no one could blame Alphard Black for being sound asleep when Harry Apparated cross-legged onto his bed. One could also not blame him for shrieking ' _bloody murderer'_ when violently being shaken awake by a hyperventilating and panicked Hadrian Peverell.

"Al, wake up! I- I don't know what to do. I've completely lost my mind," Harry told his half-slumbering friend—desperation clinging dangerously to his every word.

His breath was coming out in short, shaky puffs, and his chest was heaving uncontrollably. He felt sick and dizzy, and his head hurt like a buggering bitch.

Harry felt closer to the edge then he'd ever felt before, and he was terrified of losing himself.

Alphard was the only person that _knew_.

He was the only one that could possibly understand and help him. He needed Alphard to keep him from falling—to keep him grounded—because he was sure that if he fell off the edge now, he'd be falling forever.

"Harry?" Alphard huskily groaned while wiping away the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his palm. "What time is it?" he grumbled through a yawn.

Judging by the fact that Hadrian's form was obscured in darkness, it was still only night out. Not exactly the appropriate time for a social call. And while he'd fantasised plenty about this sort of situation with Harry, he very much doubted that this would play out like it usually did in his dreams.

"Not really sure," Harry shrugged, running a trembling hand through his dishevelled hair. He closed his eyes to try to regain some control of himself, but he was helplessly falling apart.

"Whatever this is couldn't have waited until morning?" Alphard grumbled tiredly, throwing an arm over his face.

Harry looked up at his friend, face etched in disbelief. "Did you not hear me say that I've completely lost my mind? Show some compassion for a friend in need of guidance," he growled.

Harry's temper was very volatile at that moment, so it was not in Alphard's best interest to piss him off, who might have noticed that if he hadn't gone and covered his face.

"So _now_ you decide that you want to talk?" Alphard snarked moodily. He then peeked at his friend and finally noticed that Harry looked on the verge of breaking down. "What happened?" he asked him frantically as he quickly scrambled to sit up against the headboard—definitely more alert now that he saw Harry's eyes glowing in an unnatural hue.

"I kissed Riddle," Harry blurted out obtusely and immediately cringed.

That was not what he'd meant to say at all, but it was as good a start as any.

Alphard blinked owlishly at his friend, his worried expression swiftly turning blank.

"And you woke me up to tell me that you've kissed Tom Riddle?"

"Yes—I mean, no! That should definitely not have happened, but that's just a _symptom_ ," Harry choked out, glad that he finally had Al's undivided attention.

Alphard frowned at his friend and scratched his head. It was much too early for him to understand Harry's cryptic talk.

"I don't follow," he told him bluntly. "Symptom of what exactly?"

"My impending insanity, Alphard! Please do try and keep up," Harry snapped, running his palms over his face.

" _Right_ ," he deadpanned, and then took a moment to really take in his friend's appearance.

Alphard's expression once again turned weary when he noticed Harry's glowing eyes and shaking form. He winced and mentally kicked himself for acting like a callous arse towards his immortal friend who obviously needed his support right now.

Realising that Harry was currently very unstable—and thinking that it wasn't particularly wise to further upset an unstable immortal—Alphard took on a more gentle and soothing tone.

"I won't pretend that I have any notion of what you're talking about or what you're going through. And I'll also add that I'm not a mind healer, but you can talk to me, Harry. Tell me what's got you so unhinged that you felt the need to seek solace in several bottles of firewhisky these past few days."

Harry chuckled emptily and looked at his friend with intensely bright, glowing eyes.

"Do you know what it's like? To trust someone so explicitly that you wouldn't ever even dream of the possibility that they would betray you? To have a connection so deep that they become an extended part of yourself?" he asked him, voice deep and full of hurt.

Alphard knew that those were rhetorical questions, so he waited silently and patiently for Harry to continue.

"Sometimes it felt like we were one and the same—so entwined that you could barely tell us apart. I thought we were indestructible. How am I supposed to move past this? He ripped us apart and every inch of me aches—and my soul is burning so hot I can barely breathe. Everything I thought we were has been thoroughly turned upside down, and I can't even tell apart my true emotions from those he fabricated."

Alphard watched his distraught friend with wary eyes, not liking the defeat he heard in his voice.

Harry hadn't exactly painted the clearest picture for him, but the little he did understand was that someone Harry loved and trusted had tempered with his emotions.

"I'm sorry, I know I'm not making much sense right now," Harry gulped, trying to gather his wits together. Nothing made sense anymore.

"Don't, Harry. I'm here to listen," Alphard said with kind, grey eyes.

Harry gratefully nodded his head and continued.

"A few centuries ago, in the summer of 1945—Yes, I know that's about four years away from now, but just listen," he begged him when he saw Alphard about to interject. With a reluctant nod from Al, Harry continued with his story.

"You've already seen memories of me with an older version of Tom Riddle, but that's a whole other can of worms that I'd rather not open right now. All I want to say is that it didn't end well between us. He knew too much about me. Dangerous information I couldn't allow him to have. So just before the end of our seventh year, I erased myself from everyone's memory. Everyone's—including Tom's. Or, rather, I was going to—but Death took that choice away from me. It's complicated," he stated with a long sigh.

Alphard was confused. Was Harry upset because someone tampered with his memories, or because he tempered with other people's memories?

"After doing what I did, and losing who I, unfortunately, till this day, think of as the love of my life, I was broken almost beyond repair. It's pathetic, I know," he groaned, shoulders slumping forward in embarrassment. "So I disappeared to this place I've built in the wilderness—trying to piece myself back together—far, far away from civilization. Obviously, I always had Death with me. I was never really alone, and that's probably the only reason why I've kept my sanity for as long as I have…."

"He's been at my side since my tender age of twenty-two, practically my whole existence. Over time we learned everything about each other, there were no secrets between us because there wasn't any need for them, not when we were connected for the rest of all eternity. There was only one thing I didn't know about Death—I never saw his face, so I didn't know what he looked like. It was the only rule he had for me, to never touch his hood and reveal his face."

Not able to hold in the question, Alphard blurted out, "So Death is a corporeal being? I always thought of him as a ghost-like figure."

Harry managed a small grin and shook his head. "He's corporeal to anyone he wishes to be," he said, drawing a startled squeak from Alphard. "He can't step through to our realm for a very long time because it endangers the veil between the living and the dead, but he's perfectly capable of being fully corporeal.

"So technically—if he so desired—Death could appear to me? All real and tangible?"

Harry shrugged and nodded his head. Technically—most probably—especially since Alphard now knew about him. But there was no need to further alarm the boy just yet.

"Merlin, Harry. Being your friend is bloody terrifying," he said, allowing his head to fall defeatedly back against the headboard. "Something tells me you broke that one rule he gave you in the summer of 1945, didn't you?" he asked him cautiously, dreading the answer.

Harry's only response was to close off his expression and go completely stiff.

Alphard watched in alarm as Harry's eyes grew even brighter and he suddenly felt a suffocating amount of magic leaking from Harry and immediately knew that it couldn't possibly mean anything good, and not just for himself. He had this prickling feeling in his chest warning him that the whole castle was in danger if he didn't manage to calm Harry down.

"Harry, maybe you should rest for a bit. It's been a long day and you're probably very tired," he suggested cautiously.

Harry's eyes shot to Alphard and it took every ounce of self-control the young Black possessed not to shrink away from him.

"I've never felt more awake in my life, Al," he told him coldly.

"Alright," he immediately relented with a small gulp.

"Do you want to hear a story, Al?" Harry asked him abruptly, his eyes intently locked onto Al's frightened grey eyes.

"Story?" he managed to ask through his rising panic.

"Yes, a story," Harry smirked, and at that moment Alphard honestly couldn't reconcile his friend with the wizard standing before him. "One day in the summer of '45, a story was made—a tragedy, really. Would you like to hear it?"

"Tell me the story, Harry," he told him kindly, hoping that his friendly disposition would calm the raging inferno he saw brewing in Harry's glowing emerald eyes. "I've always been a sucker for tragedies," he joked, pulling his lips into a boyish grin.

By some miracle, Harry's eyes softened and his lips twisted into an apologetic frown.

"Go on," Alphard urged him. "Tell me this interesting tale before the suspense kills me."

"Very well," Harry agreed and leaned back against the bedpost, getting comfortable.

"So, on one terribly hot day in the summer of '45, as dusk chased away the sun, Death had finally had enough of his immortal companion's moping around. Said companion had just spent over seventy-two hours in his mind-scape, masochistically reliving every memory he had of his lost lover," Harry winced as he said this, disgusted by how miserable and weak he'd allowed himself to become back then.

"Having decided that enough was enough, Death decided to invade his friend's mindscape, ripping very painfully and rather rudely through his Occlumency shields as he did so. Suffice it to say that a huge row quickly ensued and some less than pleasant words were exchanged between them," he said sarcastically while wrinkling his nose in remembrance.

"One moment the friend is screaming himself hoarse, blaming Death for every little woe in his life and drawing some unfair comparisons between him and the aforementioned lost lover. Then, a moment later, Death is offering to show him just how comparable they actually were."

Alphard's eyes widened, finally catching on to where Harry was going with this tale of his.

If Harry noticed Alphard's face blanch, he didn't say anything about it and grimly continued his story.

"Instead of being stunned speechless at the tasteless joke he'd made—as he rightly should have been—the friend, imbecile that he'd always been, decided to take it as a challenge. Rage, frustration, and no small amount of heart-ache played a big part in why the moron grabbed Death by the robe and pressed their bodies flush against one another," he explained flatly, and the chuckle that followed the statement was cold and devoid of any emotion.

Harry once again carded his fingers frustratedly through his untidy hair. "Mindscape or not, I cannot stress how very, very, very, wrong it was for them to do what happened next," he groaned and grimaced.

Alphard wasn't quite sure how he should be feeling, he'd fallen into a stunned state of disbelief.

"The narrator would like to claim that it was the first and only time that such a dalliance took place. But as fate would have it, he cannot do so. Neither can he claim that the imbecile was the one to put an end to the dalliance between them. No, it was Death that had put a stop to what was perhaps the best sh- right..." Harry trailed off and cleared his throat, trying and failing to fight down the blush he felt warming his cheeks.

"Anyway, being the backstabbing piece of shit that Death always was and will be, in what was quite probably a fit of enlightenment on his end, decided that everything could be fixed and set straight by altering and blocking some of the fool's memories without his consent. And what an utter fool he must have been to ever even entertain the notion that Death was a viable option for a partner. Once bitten twice shy, they say, but he must not have gotten the memo, because there he was—twice scorned and fucked over—swept under the rug like some dirty little secret," Harry growled through gritted teeth.

Alphard really wanted to say something comforting to diffuse some of Harry's rising temper, but what he found himself blurting out was, "And how did Death measure up to the aforementioned lost lover?"

Once he realised what he'd asked, Alphard turned beet-red and began sputtering. "I- um… ignore me, Harry. Really. Forget I- ah- said anything at all. That was an interesting story," he said and immediately winced. "What I mean to say is that- um…" his eyes went wide, and his jaw was opening and closing as he floundered for the right words to say.

Harry couldn't help but smirk at his frazzled looking friend.

"Thanks, Al. For always being able to focus on the least important issue at hand."

Regaining some of his composure, Alphard rolled his eyes and shoved Harry's shoulder good-naturedly.

Harry smiled but then he remembered what they had been talking about and the smile slipped off his face.

"He blocked those memories from me, Al," he mumbled brokenly. "He also manipulated my emotions so that I would no longer feel curious and attracted to him. He betrayed me in the worst ways possible, and the worst thing about it is that I shouldn't feel confused. I should only feel angry and betrayed. He took away my choice, so why am I not furious? Why am I not doing everything I can to obliterate our connection? This wasn't part of the plan. We- I had a solid plan. A plan that did not involve a love triangle between Death, Tom, and I. Not that I'm presumptuous enough to think that there would be such a thing as a love triangle between us. Regaining my memories doesn't change that Death has very much taken himself out of that triangular equation."

Harry paused his rant for a moment to catch his breath, unshed tears glistening brightly in his eyes.

"Merlin, I hate that I'm so affected by this. I've slept with an uncomfortable amount of people in my life, so casual sex isn't an issue, not really. I just don't understand why he had to block my damned memories. I'm not a child! I would've handled the rejection and gotten over it just fine. But now everything is a mess and it's all his fault!" he vented and then buried his face into his hands, choking back the sobs that threatened to break loose.

Alphard was at a loss, because how does one comfort their immortal friend for being cruelly dumped by Death a few centuries ago in the future? Typical courting advice didn't exactly count and was hardly adequate for such an unprecedented situation, but he'd try his best.

"I can't tell you why er- why _Death_ would betray you, Harry," he started nervously. "There is only one person...right, uh- being?"

Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes, and he simply shrugged.

Al chuckled, "Sorry. Alright, there's only one _being_ that can answer your questions, Harry. I'm not saying that you have to forgive him, but I think you know that you can't move on from this unless you talk to him. What he did was despicable, but maybe he had his reasons—reasons you're overlooking. And if it turns out that he didn't…. Well, then at least you'll know and you can put that sordid affair behind you."

Harry knew this, but logic didn't make the prospect of talking to Death any more appealing. He just wanted more time to rage, to be angry with his supposed best friend. He needed time for the knife wound in his back to heal and scab over until touching the sore spot didn't send him hauling in agony anymore.

Alphard sighed. "You care for him, Harry. Whatever happened between you two doesn't change that. You owe it to yourself to sort this out," he told him gently but firmly. "Take all the time you need to be angry, we are all here for you. You're not alone. Me, Orion, uncle Arcturus, Lucretia. And whether we like it or not, even Potter's got your back. And just so it's out there, I'm still not over the fact that Fleamont Potter is your bloody _grandfather_ ," he whisper-exclaimed looking most disgusted.

"Merlin forbid," mocked Harry gruffly but nonetheless he gave Alphard a small grin. "Thanks for listening, Al. I just needed to get it off my chest. Vent, you know?"

Alphard smiled softly and nodded. "I know. I'm here for you, Harry. Anytime—even if it's what? Two in the morning?"

"Right. Sorry for waking you?" he apologised but it came out sounding more like a question.

Alphard groaned and burrowed himself deeper into his covers.

"You're a moron, Harry. Next time, rather than drowning your sorrows in firewhisky and then accidentally kissing Riddle—causing yourself an impromptu but overdue breakdown leading to you almost attacking me in my own bed—just talk to me, alright?"

"Alright," Harry agreed with a short but genuine chuckle.

"For now just focus on your appeal, which is only four days away. Concentrate on why you're actually here, in this time—Salazar, that's bizarre to say out loud, isn't it? Anyway, the way I see it is that all other troubles take a back seat to saving the world. In the meantime, you can slowly get used to your new memories and what they mean to you. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Harry sighed disgruntledly.

"Speaking of the appeal, did you talk to Malfoy?"

"I did. Abraxas will be sending his father a letter later on this very morning."

"Why don't you sound too happy about that?" Al asked him, noting Harry's sudden detached tone.

"I had to talk to Abraxas," was all the explanation Harry offered in a tone that told Alphard that he really should have known that.

"One last thing, Harry."

"Yes?"

"You're bloody scary when you lose your shit. Did you know that your eyes glow a really unnatural shade of green when you're angry? Don't get me wrong. It's absolutely wicked. But bloody scary, mate."

* * *

Thanks to everyone reading and following the story! A special thanks to those people that have left me a review! You've no idea how much your comments and support mean to me!


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

 **December 7th, 1941**

 **Hogwarts Library**

He kissed him.

Hadrian had _kissed_ him.

It had been no more than a close-mouthed kiss—innocent, warm, and perfect—so, so _perfect_.

It had been different from the snogging his classmates always bragged about and enjoyed describing in such explicit detail. It had been different than he'd envisioned it would be—better than he'd envisioned—so much more enjoyable and satisfying.

As Hadrian's lips had moved against his, he'd felt cherished— _cared for_ — _protected_.

It had meant _everything_ to him.

He'd felt...something so strong that even now, hours later, it still painfully echoed within himself, serving as a harsh reminder of something that wasn't his—something that might never belong to him.

Hadrian had _kissed_ him. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it ended.

He'd been so close—so, so, _close_. Close to something he'd thought that he'd never feel and experience—something he thought himself incapable of—perhaps even undeserving of.

And now he didn't know if he'd ever get that chance again—the chance to feel something other than _hollow_ or angry.

He could still feel Harry's lips brushing against his—could still feel his hands on him. And the way he'd looked at him as if there was no one more important to him than Tom….

He'd called him beautiful and then proceeded to inform him that he _wanted_ to kiss him.

Hadrian had done just that, and then it was simply _over_ , unfairly taking that wondrous and unexpected feeling away from Tom.

He felt robbed—bereaved of something he couldn't even name.

He felt angry, abandoned— _jilted._

Then there was the bitter jealousy that bubbled beneath his skin, causing what he feared might be a permanent stinging itch all over his body. He felt jealousy for the person responsible for keeping them apart—deep envy that he couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried. Because _what_ did they have that Tom didn't? What memories had Hadrian regained that could possibly come between them?

Why had Hadrian stopped? Why had he pulled away from him?

Was it because he was a mudblood? Was he not handsome enough for him? Had Tom kissed him wrong?

He'd wondered so many times what it would feel like to kiss him. It had essentially been all he could think of since Hadrian had beaten Abraxas and Avery into submission with his powerful display of wandless magic.

Well, he needn't wonder anymore because now he knew—knew intimately what it felt like to have Hadrian's sweet lips pressed against his own. Knew what it felt like to touch him and be touched by him in return. Knew what it felt like to have his fingers running oh so tenderly through his hair—blunt nails scraping urgently down his skull.

He knew that now. But he now also knew what it felt like to be pushed away by him—knew what it felt like to be rejected and walked away from.

 _What had he done wrong?_

He couldn't help but wonder—couldn't do _anything_ but wonder and think and agonise over every moment between them last night.

He wanted to stop because it _hurt_ —

No, not _hurt_. Hurt is what he'd felt when the priest had come to exorcise the demon from him—it's what he felt as a child when the other orphans excluded him and pushed him around before his magic stared protecting him—or when Mrs Cole decided he'd done something to earn himself a caning.

Now he felt... _broken—crushed_.

It stung him something fierce to think that he wasn't good enough—that Hadrian, for whatever reason, didn't want him.

Tom wanted it to stop, but he simply didn't know _how_ to.

Lips, hands, words exchanged...that's all he could think about—and he couldn't _stop._ For the life of him, he couldn't make these thoughts and feelings recede to whence they came.

He'd never wanted anything as bad as he wanted them to just.. _.go away._

If he were strong enough he might even wish that Hadrian Peverell had never come to Hogwarts at all. But he didn't. As pathetic as it was, he couldn't wish Hadrian gone from his life. It made no sense to him, but then again, emotions had never made much sense to Tom at all.

Tom grit his teeth and looked down at the old, dusty book that he'd picked up from the library.

His goal this year had been to find his ancestry—his roots to the magical world. For it was entirely impossible that a wizard such as him didn't have ties to the magical world.

That is what he should be doing—that is what he should be spending his time and energy on—not feeling love-sick over another boy that didn't even _want_ him.

How does he stop feeling...lost?

How does he stop... _caring_?

How does he stop thinking….

 _Salazar, please. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop._

His breathing was coming out heavy and in short burst.

He hadn't even noticed that he'd started crying until he saw the _tears_ stain his opened page.

Pathetic. He was utterly pathetic.

He felt cold.

He felt devoid of almost anything besides the irrational longing he felt for _him_ —devoid of anything but excruciating pain.

And the kiss he still felt on his lips burned—it burned, burned, _burned_. Scorched itself to his memory when he wanted so badly to _forget_.

 _Salazar, please. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop._

He snapped the book shut and left the library, glad that he'd disillusioned himself before he'd left the common room.

He left the library.

But where would he go?

Tom is learning the hard way that there was no running away from a discarded and fractured heart.

Emotions were absolutely _vile_. But he'd give anything to feel those lips upon him once more. To feel cherished— _cared for—protected_.

* * *

 **December 9th, 1941**

 **Number 12 Grimmauld Place,**

 **London**

Harry gracefully stepped out of the fireplace and into Grimmauld, mindlessly brushing away the soot from his shoulders, only to look up and be greeted by a stern-faced Arcturus Black who had his arms crossed defiantly over his chest.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that Harry's avoidance of certain _issues_ has now come to an abrupt end.

They locked eyes for a few seconds before Arcturus abruptly turned around and wordlessly started making his way towards his study, obviously wanting Harry to follow him.

Harry took a deep breath and followed after him, dreading the oncoming confrontation.

He'd thought about what he wanted to disclose to Arcturus and had formulated a solid, believable half-truth at the ready, but that didn't make the situation any less nerve-wracking.

Would he believe him? How would he react? Would he lose the wizard's friendship?

Once Harry entered the study, the large ebony door swung silently shut behind him, and once safely encased in the room he felt some very powerful barriers go up around them.

Paranoia was a well known Black trait, but Arcturus really pushed it to the next extreme—not that Harry could fault him—circumstances being what they were.

Arcturus gestured towards the cushy, green sofa with a no-nonsense expression plastered across his handsomely aged face. Were Harry not the immortal wizard that he was, he'd have definitely felt intimidated by Lord Black. But as it stood, he felt rather sorry for Orion. Being disciplined by the man couldn't possibly be a fun experience.

Was this what Sirius would have grown to look like? If he'd ever had the chance to? If they had been given the opportunity to adopt as Sirius had dreamed of? If he'd not gone to Azkaban? If he'd lived past his mid-twenties?

Harry would make sure that this time around Sirius would get every opportunity to do so. He'd make sure that he would grow up loved and accepted. He'd make sure that he'd find the happiness and love he'd always deserved—that he'd live a long and happy life with his chosen partner and fill his house full of children.

 _Sirius Orion Black would get to live_ —this Harry swore.

Harry took a seat and looked up at Arcturus, waiting for him to gather the thoughts he saw racing across his much too familiar eyes.

Arcturus stared him down for a few minutes, as if to gauge Harry's thoughts and body language, then he sighed almost inaudibly and cleared his throat.

"I think it's time for us to discuss some very important matters, Harry."

Harry stopped himself from wincing at the man's curt tone and respectfully nodded his head.

Arcturus' eyes darted shiftily towards his desk and then swiftly back to Harry's eyes, his brows creasing determinedly.

"Before your friendship and alliance with my House can proceed in the manner that it has, I expect some explanations and reassurances from you, Lord Peverell," he said, sounding just as formal as his words suggested.

"Of course, Lord Black," Harry immediately agreed. "I appreciate that you need to keep your family safe. Ask me what you wish to know and I shall endeavour to answer you as best as I can."

Arcturus cracked his first, genuine smile and bowed his head. He then crossed the room and reached for the large tome that was on his desk. It was a tome that Harry immediately recognised.

Let it not be said that Lord Arcturus Black didn't know how to get straight to the point.

Harry shifted uneasily in his seat and looked away from the book, back to Arcturus who was carefully watching his every movement and mentally noting down Harry's every micro-minuscule eye-twitch and wince.

Harry held his breath and stared up at the Lord, making sure that his green eyes shone extra-extra innocently. He spied a twitch in Arcturus' lips but didn't let it break his concentration.

Arcturus rolled his eyes at Harry and took a seat across from him in his ostentatious chair.

"Harry, that day of the battle, when I saw the extent of your injuries, I almost gave up on saving you," Arcturus revealed solemnly. "I couldn't get past your impressive Occlumency shields and I could feel you slowly fading. But then I heard a whisper advising me that the only way I could save you was by using my Family Magic. As impossible as it was to even contemplate, I intuitively knew that it would work."

As he said this, Arcturus flicked his wand and carefully levitated the Black genealogy tome to hover between them.

"I have looked for any connection between our families, but as I am sure you're aware, I found none to speak of. But I did find something else, something that should have been impossible," he said while magically flipping the pages of the book to the last entry.

With another gentle flick of Arcturus's wand, the book zoomed directly into Harry's line of sight.

Harry stared down at the elegant script for a few moments before waving the tome away. At his command, the book shut and flew back to Arcturus's desk.

Harry ran a hand through his hair and slumped back into the sofa. "I don't blame you for immediately suspecting me," he told him with a weary grin.

"Are you suggesting that it's not?" Arcturus asked him dubiously.

"No, your suspicions are accurate," Harry admitted without any more preamble.

Even if he had been expecting it, Arcturus was still somewhat startled to hear the confirmation from the boy's own mouth.

"How?" he demanded, his eyes trying to spear into Harry's very soul.

"Well, you see, my name is Harry Black and I'm a time-traveller. I'm your grandson's bonded husband from the year 1981. Oh, and I'm kinda stuck here forever."

Silence.

 _More silence._

Minutes passed by without any reaction whatsoever from Arcturus.

And just when Harry thought he'd broken the wizard beyond repair came the exclamation, " _Excuse me?_ You're _who_ from _what_ year?"

Harry sagely nodded his head, expression full of understanding as if to say 'I know right? The things I get myself into sometimes'.

"Quite the pickle, I know," Harry sighed resignedly.

Arcturus Black just stared at the boy in front of him, eyes wide and mouth slack. Surely the menace was having him on?

"Bonded…? 1981?" Arcturus sputtered—understandably so.

"Indeed," Harry confirmed amiably with a small shrug of his broad shoulders.

"And you've no way back?"

"That's what I said," Harry replied cheekily, enjoying this moment far too much.

"Kreacher! Bring out the firewhiskey!"

Harry smiled amusedly at Arcturus's ruffled state.

"You spoil me so well, Lord Black," he told him playfully when the house-elf popped in and poured them two glasses of some very expensive firewhisky.

Fine crystal decanter placed back on the extravagant bar cart, Kreacher popped away with a low bow.

"Start talking, Harry," Arcturus demanded after a healthy gulp of firewhisky.

After indulging in a sip himself, Harry rolled his shoulders and scratched his chin.

"See, in my time there was a war as well, and somehow I found myself in the ministry—in the Department of Mysteries to be precise. Did you know they had a time-chamber? I definitely didn't. Would have given it a wide berth if I did. But yeah, spells went flying—I really don't recommend ever having a duel in there—and here I am, forty years in the past. Was a bit of a culture shock at first, I'll admit. But I think I've done an alright job blending in."

Arcturus could do nothing but blink, and blink, and then blink some more.

To say that he was overwhelmed would be an unjust understatement.

He was confused. Baffled. Bewildered. Shell-shocked. But he also felt so very intrigued.

"Alright," Arcturus managed to say. "What can you tell me about this grandson of mine? He must have been something special to grab your attention long enough to bond with."

Harry's smile couldn't have been any more radiant.

It seemed like all was going to be well between him and House Black.

* * *

 **December 10th, 1941**

 **Ministry of Magic**

 **London, England**

 _The_ day Harry had been equal parts anticipating and dreading had finally arrived, so it wasn't very surprising that behind his cool and composed exterior Harry was having a small and private, anxious _meltdown_.

It would be most precise to state that this Wizengamot session would be his official debut into Britain's Wizarding Elite, meaning that his entire plan to reshape Britain's Wizarding Community hinged on him making a good first impression on these pompous, self-involved people.

So yes, Harry was feeling somewhat nervous, if not slightly nauseous.

It wasn't as if his task would be easily accomplished. Saving the world from humans was much more complicated than it sounded.

Dumbledore had not been wrong when he'd said that the Purebloods weren't going to just fall in line with his ideals. Despite what Harry had said, and how confident he'd acted that day with Dumbledore, the truth of the matter was that he simply didn't know how his bill was going to be met, regardless of the concrete proof he'd assembled for their viewing.

If there was to be any hope at all for the Pureblood elitists to consider his bill, he was going to have to make them _want_ to listen to him, which will be a battle in and of itself, and in the end, charm and charisma would only get him so far.

He foresaw bloodshed. And debate. Unending hours of tedious debate where he has to soundly defend his ideals while maintaining his stance as politely as possible—in other words, pandering to their over-inflated egos.

Merlin, how he abhorred politics.

Harry and Arcturus had arrived early at Harry's insistence that he wanted to get 'a feel for the crowd's vibe before diving into the shit-storm'. Those exact words had earned him a wrinkled nose and quite the puzzled look from Arcturus, which he'd pointedly ignored in favour of mentally going over his speech for the umpteenth time.

In the past fifteen minutes or so, several severe-looking Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot Council started arriving and convened outside of the chamber, splitting into their respective groups to discuss- well, to discuss Harry, he supposed, given all the furtive glances he'd been receiving.

Thankfully, no one had been bold enough to approach him.

"You needn't be so nervous, Harry. We went over everything last night and again this morning. I dare say that you're more than ready for anything they decided to throw at you today," Arcturus reassured him with an amused smirk.

"I'm not nervous," Harry bit out, more aggressively than he'd intended.

"Of course," Arcturus hummed. "Sickly-green in your natural complexion. Pardon my mistake."

Harry groaned, not in the least bit amused. "This is really not the time for clever jests, Arcturus."

"Maybe not," he conceded, trying to suppress his growing smirk. "But you agree that it was rather clever, yes?"

Harry gave him an unimpressed look, eliciting a small chuckle from Lord Black.

Before Harry could comment on his friend's enormous ego, he noticed Arcturus's gaze locking onto something over his shoulder and saw him hastily slip on his society smile.

"Lord Potter is approaching us," he warned Harry through a painfully polite smile.

It was no secret that the two wizards didn't exactly see eye-to-eye.

A few seconds later, Lord Potter came to a stop next to them with an affable smile on his face, seeming wholly unbothered by Arcturus's presence, for which Harry was eternally grateful for. He was entirely certain that Lord Potter's cordial demeanour could be attributed to Fleamont's efforts, who had restlessly talked Harry up to his father over the past few months.

"Lord Black," Henry Potter greeted politely with a respectful tilt of his head.

"Lord Potter," came Arcturus answering greeting, slightly more stilted than Lord Potter's, but the other wizard remained unaffected and barely spared him another glance, immediately turning all his attention onto Harry.

"And you must be Lord Peverell," he said, hazel eyes taking in Harry's immaculate appearance.

"That I am," Harry smiled. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Lord Potter."

"Pleasure is all mine, Lord Peverell. I've heard much about you since the start of term and I'm pleased to finally be able to put a face to the name my son has repeatedly mentioned in every one of his letters to us," he chuckled lightly.

Harry grinned, easily imagining Fleamon't excitable ramblings.

"So you've heard how Fleamont has finally found himself a worthy quidditch rival?" he asked him, causing hazel eyes to immediately light up, and Harry instantly knew that any shred of reservations Henry Potter might have had towards him melted away with that one well-placed remark.

Quidditch was, after all, the way to a Potter's heart.

Henry Potter matched Harry's amused grin. "I've read a rant or two about the new Slytherin chaser giving my boy a run for his galleons. I believe he now fears that Gryffindor will lose the House Cup and it appears he's not quite sure whether to be excited about the challenge or bemoan his luck."

"My constantly aching limbs are a testament to his excitement," Harry groused charmingly while theatrically rubbing his forearm. "When we're not in a class, studying, or at meals, Fleamont is dragging me out to the quidditch pitch to practice with him. He's determined to catch the snitch before me, completely overlooking the fact that I'm the chaser for my team and not the seeker."

Henry laughed and nodded his head in sympathetic understanding. "Yes, that sounds like my Fleamont. Competitive to a fault. Although, as I understand it, he's more vexed that you're beating him in Transfiguration. I, for one, am highly grateful that he's found someone to challenge him."

"I'm glad to be of service, Lord Potter. But I'm sure that Fleamont would manage excellently on his own. He's a very talented and bright wizard and I'm most fortunate to call him my friend. I must commend you and your wife on raising such a fine wizard," Harry complimented sincerely.

Henry gave him an appreciative nod, his expression turning a touch more benign.

"Thank you, Lord Peverell. That's very kind of you to say. I'll be sure to pass your compliments to my wife. I'm sure she'll appreciate the acknowledgement of all the hard work we've put into that boy," he said, sending Harry a playful wink.

"Please, Lord Potter. There's no need for such formalities amongst friends. I insist you call me Hadrian, or Harry if you prefer."

"Only if you accept to call me Henry, Harry. I'd give you leave to call me Harry, but that may cause us some confusion," Henry smirked a startlingly familiar smirk.

"Henry it is," Harry agreed with a small chuckle, positively delighted to have started his acquaintance with his great-grandfather on such a good note.

"I must admit, Harry. I'm rather curious to hear what you have planned for the Wizengamot today. All we've been told is that you wished to push forward a new bill and not much else. Fleamont seems to know some of your plans, but he wasn't very forthcoming with the details. All he would reveal was that this meeting would be…revolutionary, I believe were his exact words," he disclosed, sounding fondly amused by his son's exuberance.

Coming from anyone else that might have sounded like a jibe, but Henry wasn't mocking Harry or his son, he was simply trying to subtly prod for some information. Suffice it to say that subtle was not a Potter's strong suit.

"Well, I don't know about revolutionary, but I do have some crucial changes in mind that I hope the Wizengamot will be generous enough to hear out," he hedged diplomatically.

But Henry wasn't one to easily let things go. "Crucial you say? Oh my, how very intriguing. And what changes would those be exactly?" he asked him, trying, and failing, to sound aloof.

Harry smirked charmingly and most mischievously.

"Those would be changes regarding a subject that incites much controversy in our community."

"How ambiguously vague," Henry chortled, sounding only slightly dismayed. "You've managed to further pique my interest, but I believe you knew that already," he smirked, raising his right brow in much the same fashion Harry does when catching someone out on their trickery.

"My apologies, Henry. I simply don't want to ruin the suspense for you," he told him cheekily, earning himself a surprised laugh from his great-grandfather.

"I see now why you get along so famously with my son. I was beginning to wonder how such a polite young wizard was so well acquainted with my somewhat brash son. But I see now that you possess his same brazenness," he commented good-naturedly.

"Now now, Henry. There is no need for such flattery," Harry quipped openly, uncaring of the mortification on Arcturus's face at their improperly casual interaction.

Henry, on the other hand, looked positively charmed by their banter.

"I like you, lad," he said. "My son warned me that I would find it impossible not to, and I am pleasantly surprised that he was right."

"Thank you, Henry," Harry smiled shyly. "And thank you for approaching me. Our small conversation has greatly helped my frazzled nerves."

Henry looked startled by his admission.

"You've been hiding any discomfort very well," he reassured him. "Is there anything specific that has you nervous, my boy?"

Harry sighed. "You mean, besides this whole political endeavour in itself? I suppose that I'm mostly afraid that the Wizengamot will not take me seriously because of my age," he confessed, voicing his most pressing concern.

"I can see how that might be troubling you, and it's not unfounded, but you seem like a very well-spoken young man, Harry, and if it's any reassurance at all, our esteemed Minister had nothing but good things to say about you. Not to mention that your recent heroic deeds in Hogsmeade have very much endeared you to many of the council members, seeing as many of them have their own children or grandchildren currently attending Hogwarts."

Harry sputtered, wide-eyed. "Heroic?" he squawked. "But I didn't do anything heroic at all. I simply helped my peers defend the village," he insisted rather forcefully.

"That's not the way my son told it," he scolded accusingly in a way that told Harry not to sell himself short. "Fleamont said that you took command of the situation and formed a solid defensive strategy amidst a surprise attack. You got them organised and kept them alive. More experienced wizards would have done much worse than you did in such circumstances. In fact, they did do worse. There were no casualties in Hogsmeade, which unfortunately cannot be said for the four other locations that were hit that day. Not to forget that you managed to apprehend and capture several of Grindelwald's followers, and at grave risk to your own life."

Harry grimaced and looked away from Henry.

When put that way it sounded pretty heroic, but he was never going to feel comfortable with the hero label. Old habits and all.

"I do believe that the Ministry owes you a great debt for your services," Henry added, causing Harry to blush uncomfortably at the praise.

He'd never been very good at accepting sincere compliments either. Again, old habits and all.

"I uh- Thank you, Henry," he mumbled humbly while nervously rubbing the back of his neck.

Henry's eyes then flickered towards Arcturus who had remained respectfully silent while watching the exchange between the two Lords. Then he turned his gaze back to Harry.

"And if I may be so bold to add, you seem to already have built some strong support. While I admit that Lord Black and I are not always in agreement, I will be the first to acknowledge that he's no fool. I don't believe that he would concern himself with frivolous ideals and neither do the other members of the Wizengamot."

"I certainly hope not," Arcturus couldn't help but grumble and Harry spied Henry biting back a grin.

"Your reassurance is much appreciated, Henry," he told him, completely ignoring Arcturus's comment. "I look forward to hearing your opinion on my appeal."

"And I look forward to offering it, Harry. I don't wish to take up any more of your time and will now leave you to your preparations. I wish you the best of luck today."

"Thank you, Henry," he said earnestly, tilting his head respectfully.

Instead of leaving, Henry unexpectedly turned his attention towards Arcturus, his demeanour no less friendly.

"Lord Black, shall I save you a seat next to me? I'll be most grateful for your company during this session. I have a feeling that there will be much excitement."

Both Harry and Arcturus were stunned speechless by the offer.

That was a declaration of support, however small it was, and Henry hadn't even heard anything yet. Two prominent members of opposing factions sitting together sent a very clear message.

Harry owed Fleamont a lifetime supply of Quidditch goods.

"I'd appreciate that, Lord Potter," Arcturus barely managed to get out through his shock.

"Marvelous. I'll see you both inside," he said, and then he was gone.

"Have I recently mentioned what a remarkable wizard you are?" Arcturus asked him, sounding as dumbfounded as Harry felt.

"It's always nice to hear again," Harry preened, suddenly feeling very good about himself.

Arcturus snorted and rolled his eyes. "It's painful to admit, but that was impressive even for you, Harry. The session hasn't even started yet and the leader of the light faction already likes you."

"I'm simply a likeable person," Harry shrugged, full of false modesty.

"Yes, and oh so very humble," Arcturus deadpanned.

"My best quality," Harry quipped back, his smirk turning into an ear-splitting grin.

Arcturus just rolled his eyes and shook his head in response.

* * *

The Wizengamot had been called into session a few minutes ago, ushering the remaining Lords and Ladies into the Council Chamber. Once everyone had settled into their place, the Minister hadn't wasted any time and started updating the council on the recent changes that have been made in light of their altered position in the war, which served Harry's purpose rather well.

Harry needed the herd to be afraid—needed them afraid for their lives. He needed them to feel that instinctual self-preservation that fear arouses within a person when faced with the possibility of their death.

He needed them to be able to _empathize_.

So it would be quite honest to say that the recent attacks that led to Magical Britain's official standing against Grindelwald were timed rather conveniently for Harry, however guilty he felt for even thinking about it.

He'd be a fool not to use the fear and caution that war inspires in people to get the council to listen to him. And Harry really needed to use every trick in his arsenal if he ever hoped to sway the council to vote in his bill.

He did have to convince a bunch of blood-purists that they needed muggle-borns, so really, everything was game.

 _Merlin_ , what had he been thinking? He was never going to pull this off. He'd spent the past centuries practically living like a recluse! How did he manage to convince himself that this was a good idea?

He should have taken on an older or more mature persona, regardless of Death's insistence that he needed to attend Hogwarts for at least a year. If he had, then maybe he wouldn't feel so damn nervous.

Actually, he should have stayed at Hogwarts and made Arcturus lead this battle. Harry could have stayed in the shadows where he was most comfortable and let the mortals deal with their own messes.

No, what he should have done was cast a global Imperius that would prevent anyone from being prejudiced, racists, murderous, or in any way inclined towards the destruction of the world and its occupants, and his job would have been done.

He was sure that he could manage it, some way, after a few years of research.

Or he could have simply let the world burn, that had also been an option. Who was he to decide that the world deserved a second chance anyway?

Maybe taking a simple calming draught before attending the Wizengamot session would have also done the trick. He _was_ being rather dramatic.

Harry wasn't sitting very far from the podium where Minister Leonard Spencer-Moon stood addressing the council. He had a good view of the entire chamber, which unfortunately also meant that _they_ had a good view of him, and the Council Chamber was packed.

Each and every last seat was occupied. They had all shown up.

Logically, Harry knew that this was a mandatory session. None of them had a choice but to attend, yet he was still surprised, and slightly overwhelmed, by the sheer number of his audience.

He tried his best not to fidget as he anxiously waited for the Minister to call him to the podium, but it became increasingly difficult to do so under the intense scrutiny of everyone's gazes.

At that moment he truly felt Death's absence from his side.

If he were there he would be making some aggravating comments just to get Harry's mind off the impending show. Harry would have acted angry while secretly thanking Death for being such an awesome friend.

But Death wasn't there, and these days he was a far cry from being an awesome friend. That didn't mean that Harry didn't desperately miss his reassuring presence, however infuriating that was to accept.

He missed him—plain and simple. No amount of wishing it wasn't so would make the aching hole Death's absence left in his chest go away.

Harry quickly shoved these thoughts to the back of his mind and turned his focus back to the Minister, just in time as well, because in the next moment he was being called onto the stage.

"We now welcome to the podium the newest member of the Wizengamot Council. Lord Hadrian James Peverell."

And that was Harry's cue. The moment of truth. The moment he'd been slaving away in preparation for.

 _Merlin, how he abhorred politics._

Pushing back any doubts and fears he had behind his strong mental barriers, Harry slipped on his most charming smile and stood from his seat, striding confidently up to the podium where he would stand at the centre of the entire room's attention.

Once he took his place, Harry's emerald eyes immediately focused on the crowd, his confidence never faltering.

This wasn't the time to show any uncertainty. If nothing else, the council members had to be fully convinced that he was, at the very least, sure of himself and what he was saying. If they detected even a hint of uncertainty in him they would never deign to give him the time of day.

So Harry stared them down and began, his voice inviting, drawing them in with its soothing timbre. He might—or he might not have—added the tiniest spec of persuasive magic into the sound waves he released from his vocal cords. Just enough to be mildly effective and make them listen, but not enough to be detected or influence their opinions.

"Esteemed Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot Council," he addressed courteously, piercing emerald eyes roaming over the whole crowd. "I understand that the way you have been summoned to this session is somewhat unorthodox, so I would like to thank you all for being here today. Especially since I am sure that you have other pressing matters to attend to in these dangerous and sorrowful times that we, unfortunately, find ourselves in."

Having sufficiently humbled himself in front of the council, Harry only gave a small pause before he plunged back in, a tad more forceful this time.

"But it is _precisely_ these perilous times that have brought me to stand in front of you here today. I don't need to remind anyone in this chamber that as of the 27th November, Wizarding Britain has officially entered into war against Germany, or more accurately, against the Dark Lord Grindelwald as his mad regime to obliterate the Statute of Secrecy."

Some grumbled murmurs could be heard around the chamber at being reminded of their plight, but it quickly died down when Harry resumed his rehearsed speech.

"As we've all gathered from our Minister's brief update, the Ministry is performing admirably in its defence of our community, having, over the duration of the past week, set in place numerous new security measures to deal with both the muggle war and the war that we now, regrettably, face in our own world. A shelter has been opened for those misfortunate families that lose their homes due to the ongoing war. Towns and Alleys with the highest influx of people have been reinforced, and more wards are still being put in place. The Ministry is also giving out licences for direct floo travel into the ministry to those citizens without an apparition licence, to be activated in the event of an emergency," he listed, his approval clear for all to hear.

"These are only some of the measures set in place in efforts to ensure the safety of Wizarding Britain, and they are all commendable efforts with the aim to give each and every one of our citizens a fighting chance in this war that's been forced upon us."

The council was listening, waiting— _curious_.

"Indeed, with these contingencies in place, the Ministry has lowered many risks." Harry paused, his face twisting into a more grave expression. "But I am sure that we can all agree that in spite of these new measures, there will still be many repercussions that we will have to deal with—are, in fact, already dealing with—not the least of which will be the tragic number of losses we will inevitably face, as it always is in the way of war."

Many council members were nodding their head in troubled agreement, though they looked slightly confused as to where Hadrian was going with all this. Up until then, he hadn't said anything the Wizengamot wasn't already painstakingly aware of.

"We'll lose Aurors, ministry officials, field healers, unsuspecting civilians, parents, _children_. This, as horrible it is to think about, is an indisputable fact. And that is what I am here to discuss with you today. I am here to address the inevitable and disabling losses we are about to face and to propose a way to reduce that number."

Excited whispering and disbelieving murmurs could be heard around the council. Harry waited for them to settle down, giving him a moment to sort his own thoughts, before he continued his speech.

"The number I speak of may not be immediately felt in our community, but I assure you that it will make a profound difference in the coming years. Especially in the years after the war, when we begin to rebuild."

 _It was now or never._

Harry took a deep breath and fought the urge to nervously gnaw on his bottom lip.

"Esteemed Lords and Ladies, I am not speaking to you regarding the protection of our _recognised_ citizens, citizens which we are already doing our duty to best protect. I am here to address the glaring concern regarding the protection of all those children, _muggle-born children_ , from defenceless newborn babes to the young, ten-year-old children who have not yet been given the privilege of being inducted into our society."

Silence. Loud, tension-filled silence followed Harry's statement.

Shocked outrage was plastered on several faces. Speechless outrage that in any other circumstances would have made for some comic relief.

Harry quickly pushed on before someone decided to voice his outrage and disrupt his speech.

"When searching for the updated recordings of our population, these muggle-born children aren't taken into account. But they live, hidden away from us until their eleventh birthday. Many of you may not want to acknowledge this, but these children make up a considerable percentage of our population—a considerable percentage that may be lost to us forever due to our own negligence."

"These poor children are denied their right to the same safety and protection we offer each and every witch and wizard in our community. These poor children who are stuck in the chaos and barbarity of the muggle war, who have no one but their own powerless muggle parents to look out for them. And even then, most of those children's fathers are deported to war, their mothers perished to the bombs, starvation, or disease, leaving their children to follow suit."

Murmurs and grumbles could be heard throughout the chamber, causing Harry to almost stumble over his words. To fortify himself, he managed to find Arcturus in the crowd, who gave Harry an encouraging nod.

"I ask you now, Lords and Ladies. How do we justify leaving them to such pitiable conditions when we are able to offer them so much more? When we can offer them a real chance at life? These children who could grow to be our future healers, researchers, ministry officials. How do we justify depriving them of that option? How do we justify depriving ourselves of these members of our community?"

"Of course, you would all be quick to point out that even if we wished to bring them into our world, we've yet to invent a method that would allow us to locate those children. But what if I were to tell you that such an invention now exists? What if I were to tell you that by the end of the next week we will be able to locate all these children?"

Harry felt like rolling his eyes at the grimaces that twisted on some of the council member's faces, looking none too pleased by what Harry was saying. Others looked intrigued, Lord Potter being one of them.

"I see some of you now wear grim faces and I can deduce the next line of inquiries that you have for me. To start with, where would we relocate them? What about their muggle families? Who will be doing the locating in the first place? Aurors are, after all, diligently occupied with the protection of our people. But what if I told you that all these matters could be taken care of? What if there was a party that is willing to fund the manpower and resources to make all this happen?"

The dark faction looked even less impressed by this.

Harry had known that it wouldn't be easy to convince these people of his ideals, but that foreknowledge didn't stop his heart from racing uncomfortably in his chest.

This had to work. It just had to, or everything would have been for nought.

So, despite his nerves and fears, Harry plunged onwards.

"Then there will be those to outright refuse muggle-borns this opportunity simply because they believe them to be of _lesser importance_. Maybe some of you even mistakenly believe that this muggle war is an effortless way to root out those they think undeserving of our shared gifts. But what if I told you I had irrefutable proof to the contrary? What if I had proof that muggle-borns are, in fact, invaluable to us?"

Harry snapped his finger together and suddenly a manuscript hovered in front of every member of the Wizengamot, causing some eyebrows to raise at the display of wandless and silent magic. Some even gasped and shuffled back in their seats, wary of the floating expensive parchment.

"In front of you will find all my research compiled for your viewing. You will find within those pages irrefutable proof that muggle-born children have the potential to grow as powerful as any pureblood witch and wizard. You will find that unions between muggle-borns and purebloods have an even higher probability of producing above-average offspring and a lesser possibility of producing squibs."

There it was, the uproar Harry had been waiting for. Several Lords and Ladies mutinously raised their voices, calling hogwash. But that was to be expected.

The Minister stood and called the chamber to quiet down, but it took a few moments for the unrest to settle, sensitive purebloods that they were.

"Dear Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot, I do not blame you for your wariness. I am aware of the concerns most of you have in regards to the muggle-borns. I understand that you fear that to accommodate these individuals we are changing core traditions that make us who we are—that keep us connected to Mother Magic. Yule replaced by Christmas, All Hallows Eve replaced by Halloween. Our rituals, traditions, and feast are being eviscerated because muggle-borns fear going against what they have been thought to be blasphemous and _evil_. They push their beliefs on us and call it _progress_."

Shouts of agreement could be heard and Harry prudently nodded his head.

"I understand these concerns and I feel much the same way. But what have we done to change this? How can these muggle-born children know what they are destroying when we don't deign to teach and explain to them just how necessary these traditions are? Is it such a wonder that they behave in such a way when we never really fully accept them into our world? Is it such a wonder that they cling to some semblance of familiarity when suddenly flung in a world they couldn't even have dreamt of a few days prior to receiving their Hogwarts letter?"

"Would our community not be better off if these children were given the opportunity to grow up with our beliefs and traditions? These children who have been handpicked and blessed by Mother Magic herself, do we not have a duty to them? Do we not have a duty to Mother Magic to ensure that her precious children are well cared for?"

No grumbling could be heard now, and Harry observed startled looks upon their faces, not having expected to be called out in such a way.

"I do not ask you to trust in my word alone, all I ask of you is to read my manuscript and compare it to your own research. To consider that what I am saying is indeed the truth. I ask you to keep an open mind and to leave any and all prejudice at the door—to not let yourselves be blinded by false beliefs that have been passed down for generations. Not for me, but for the betterment of our world, so that we may once again rise to the very top. So that we may allow our community to grow and flourish once more."

Harry once again paused in his speech, allowing his words to sink into their thick skulls.

"I am here today to appeal to you, let us change our ways in this one regard. Let us welcome these children into our world with open arms. Let us teach them to be better—to be worthy of the gifts bestowed to them. I appeal to you to vote for a change to the age of admission of muggle-born children, to be revised from the age eleven to a week after their birth. If such a vote were to pass, we could root out abuse incited by fear of the unknown. We could stamp out wrong beliefs and any trepidation muggle-borns feel to fully converge into our world. We could become stronger than ever before."

The Lords and Ladies looked at their allies, searching for their reactions and asking with their eyes if they trusted this wizard they barely knew anything about. But Harry could see the doubt settling into them, wondering silently _'what if he's right?'._ And for now, that's all Harry needed from them. The seed of doubt had been planted and all he had to do was wait for it to take root and _grow_.

"In the second part of my manuscript, you will find all the precautionary measures that need to be taken in order for such an endeavour to be successful. You will find a draft of a new secrecy contract for the parents or guardians of these muggle-born children. You will find monitoring spells of my own creation to ensure the safety of these children and the safety our world, as well as a detailed account of the whole process—from locating these children to relocating them to a safer environment if such actions are needed, as well as plans for their integration into our world."

Everyone looked at the still hovering manuscripts, all probably thinking that it was more of a manifesto than anything else—and they would be right, of course. But to call it a manifesto would be ill-advised at this stage. He didn't need them to think that he was a threat to their political allegiances.

"I have given you much to think about, so I would like to rest my case here and leave you with these last parting words. Muggle-borns are not our enemies. They are children in need of our guidance. Children that will grow to be our students, neighbours, spouses. Children that will father the next generations of witches and wizards. I beseech you, let us not be known as the country that shuns their own. I thank you all for your consideration."

And it was over. _Finally_.

Harry respectfully bowed his head before taking his previous seat next to the minister.

Minister Leonard Spencer-Moon shot him a weary smile and replaced him on the podium.

"Thank you, Lord Peverell," he started, seeming unsure of what to think of his speech. "In order for this bill to be taken into consideration, we require three members of our esteemed council to step forward in support."

Barely having gotten those words out, Arcturus immediately stood up, inciting another round of shocked murmurs.

"I, Lord Black of the noble and most ancient House Black, hereby announce my approval and full support for Lord Peverell's bill to be pushed forward."

The next to stand was Lord Potter.

"I, Lord Potter of the noble House Potter, hereby announce my approval and full support for Lord Peverell's bill to be pushed forward."

Then, to everyone's surprise—including Harry's—Lord Malfoy was the next to stand.

"I, Lord Malfoy of the noble and most ancient House Malfoy, hereby announce my approval and full support for Lord Peverell's bill to be pushed forward."

 _Success!_ It was the only word resonating in Harry's mind.

And so the Minister's gravel was slammed down.

"So mote it be. This session is to be convened on the 20th December 1941, wherein the council will be called upon to vote for the change of the age of admission of muggle-borns. To be revised from their eleventh birthday to a week after their birth. Council dismissed."

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